


Duty to Poison

by Run_of_the_mill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 10/10, Ain't no bashing here, Don't worry, Fire-breathing kittens (briefly), Gratuitous Timeskips, Harry is a brainwashed Death Eater, Hermione is just as brainwashed, I know, James and Sirius are alive, M/M, Next Time on 'Maria's really shitty life', Remus is a Bada$$ demon-contractor werewolf, Sirius is sassy AF, Snape is an unwitting Marauder, Somehow, The Death Eaters are his Royal Army, The Marauders are hella inventors, The Marauders lead the Order, They do a generally better job of it, Voldemort has declared himself King of Wizarding Britain, We'll get there, but i'm trying my hand at this worldbuilding stuff, i'm just a birb!, it happened, it starts slow, random cliffhangers, roll with it, story starts before the summary, the Order are still the Good guys, the birb-brain strikes again!, they're very organised, this is hard for birbrain me, would rebel again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-03-20 15:24:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18995344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Run_of_the_mill/pseuds/Run_of_the_mill
Summary: Thirty years ago, Harry-James was orphaned as his parents fought on the wrong side of the war. In his great kindness, His Royal Highness, King Voldemort, had removed Harry from their poisonous rhethoric.Today, Harry-James is a Death Eater who deeply believes in Voldemort's doctrine. He believes so much that he is willing to give his life for it.But the Order has not given up yet. Run by three of the four Marauders, the Order is a thorn in Voldemort's side. They're devious and they know everything Dumbledore knew before he died. Ruthless in their attempt to liberate the wizarding world, they plan an assassination.What happens when Harry-James gets in the way?“They’re at the edge of Epsom,” said Hermione. “It’s the usual nonsense. Fire-breathing kittens, flying teacups that pour ice, flowers that sing the Beatees-”“Beatles,” interrupted Harry-James.“Excuse me?”“Beatles,” repeated Harry-James. “Not Beatees. It’s the Beatles. I remember because they’re named for the insect.”“Harry-James,” said Hermione, frowning at him in disapproval, “are you really interrupting me for semantics?”





	1. Chapter 1

The roof was blasted apart. He sat in the ruins of the nursery, holding up a rattle and waiting with baited breath. His friends had gone in pursuit, one after the traitor, the other after the monster. He waited and waited until the dust settled over the rubble, over the crib, over the body in the corner. He waited until the sun came up and reached its zenith. Distantly, he worried that something might have happened to either of them.

  
Finally, as the moon rose again, the sound of a revving engine broke the silence. He went down the stairs, through the wrecked living room, to the front door. He opened it to the angriest man he’d ever seen.

  
“He got away,” said the man. “Blasted a bunch of muggles and transformed in the confusion. Fucking rat! Should’ve known.”

  
“None of us saw it coming, Sirius,” said James. “If we’d known…” But what was there to say? What would they have done, if they’d known? Peter had been their friend since they were little boys.

  
“If we’d known,” growled Sirius, “I would’ve cut his _little_ weiner off, deep-fried it, and spoon-fed it to him!” James stared, caught between horror and guilty mirth.

  
“Any news about Moony?” asked James. Sirius shook his head and kicked a pebble. Moony had convinced them that, being the only werewolf of the group, he’d have a marginally better chance against Voldemort, that he might be able to retrieve little Harry from the monster’s clutches. Sirius and James had been less than convinced but they weren’t the ones with magic resistant pelt. Sirius settled down on a step and patted the granite next to him. With a sigh, James lowered himself and thus began the long wait for Remus Lupin.

  
Moony didn’t come back for three days after that. Sirius and James alternated guards, not wanting to miss his arrival. A few times, Sirius would force some muggle take-away and water into James’ complaining mouth. On the third day, late at night, there came a loud howl. A few moments later, a wolf broke out of the forest line. It came to stand at their feet and Sirius and James watched in common horror as its bones began to go in all the wrong ways, snapping and crunching until a naked man stood before them.

  
“Is it always like this?” asked James. Moony nodded as he reached for the robes that Sirius was holding out.

  
“The demon said it was the price,” explained Moony. “Since I didn’t want to offer my soul, he needed something to feed off of. Pain was the next best thing. Nothing to do about it. Can’t be the only werewolf to change at will without paying a price, can I?”

  
“No, I suppose not,” said James. “What about Harry?” Moony sighed, looking dejected.

  
“He was long gone,” said Moony. “Before I even started chasing. I couldn’t even catch his magical scent, that’s how fast he was gone.” Disappointment was bitter and all three men knew its taste.

  
“Why did it take so long to come back?” asked Sirius.

  
“I went straight to the ministry,” said Moony, grimly. “I thought I’d warn them, get them ready before you-know-who started his final move. I was too late again. I spent the last few days secreting as many Order members as possible to the Mountain. We need to leave too, before he sends his little pets to check up on James and Lily.”

  
“So we’re leaving Harry behind?” asked James. Moony and Sirius winced but nodded in unison.

  
“There’s nothing to do,” said Moony. “You need to live another day if you’re to get him out of you-know-who’s clutches.” James bit at his chapped lips, worrying a skin tag as he began to tear up. “There’s more, James.” Moony looked distinctly uncomfortable at whatever he was going to say next.

  
“What more?”

  
“You need to leave Lily where she is,” said Moony.

  
“ _What?!_ ” screamed James. “Are you out of your mind? I can’t do that. I can’t do that to _her.”_

  
“Listen to me,” gentled Moony. “They think you’re _both_ dead. I heard some of His pets boasting about how He'd taken down two of Dumbledore’s best fighters in one night.”

  
“That doesn’t make any sense,” argued James. “I never even saw you-know-who. I was too busy fighting off the LeStranges.”

  
“Well, for whatever reason,” said Moony, “they’ve decided to tell everyone they killed you. You can’t move Lily’s body. Not if we want to keep news of your survival to ourselves. It’s more convincing if we leave her body there. They know you’d never leave her if you had lived. Snape is staying behind. I’ll make sure he takes care of her.”

  
“Fucking Snivellus,” snarled Sirius. “We wouldn’t be in this situation if he’d kept his big mouth shut.”

  
“She was his best friend,” said Moony. “He’ll make sure she gets a decent burial.” James was about to complain when the cracks of apparation rang in the distance. Death Eaters apparating at the limits of the anti-apparation ward.

  
“We need to leave, _now,”_ urged Sirius. James had no choice but to agree in a hurry. Moony promised to meet them at the Mountain after running a perimeter and transformed before going off in a random direction. Sirius set his motorcycle to explode the moment someone approached after they were gone. With a final glance to each other, they seized the charmed galleons and vanished just in time for the Death Eaters to come to a seemingly empty Potter cottage.

  
One Death Eater approached the muggle contraption only to have it explode in a burst of fire and shrapnel that killed a number of them and burnt down Potter cottage’s front face. The compromised structure began to give way and Severus Snape only found Lily’s body after hours of digging through the rubble.

  
Thus began the rule of King Voldemort, First of His Name.

  
***

  
**Seventeen years later**

  
Harry-James stared at the posting, something akin to joy rising in his chest. The Death Eater Corps were accepting mudbloods! He couldn’t wait to tell Hermione. She’d been rather dejected when she came to realise that the DE Corps only accepted purebloods and halfbloods. But the King must have changed his mind. No doubt, he was satisfied with the mudbloods’ integration to wizarding society.

  
“’Mione!” called Harry-James as he ran through the halls of the Half-way Home for Mudbloods and Disgraced Halfbloods. He found her in the library, of course. The Home’s library was piteous at best since it was, after all, only ever going to see mudbloods and halfbloods. Still, at this point, reading was in Hermione’s blood. She could most certainly make do with the battered copies and barely legible text, as long as she got some form of knowledge out of it. Harry-James thrust the posting into her lap, watching as her face lit up as she read through it.

  
Hermione looked up at him, tears in her eyes. Immediately, she jumped up and ran off to the nearest owl. Harry-James gave her his own blank copy to duplicate and, together they filled out the DE application forms and attached them to a snowy owl who didn’t hate them too much.

  
“This time, next week,” said Hermione, excitedly, “you and I will be Death Eaters!”

  
“Well, in training,” corrected Harry-James.

  
“But we’ll have the mark!” shrieked Hermione. She was so delighted and Harry-James couldn’t thank their King enough for his magnanimity.

  
“Yes, we will,” agreed Harry-James. The future was looking bright. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we can safely say this was a fever-fueled bit of productivity. Lemme know what you think in the comments below.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, this fever is really bringing out the artist in me. 😂😂

The Captain rode in on a hypogriff. It was surprising as most purebloods seemed to have issues with the creatures. When Harry-James and Hermione had still been at Hogwarts, which only accepted them and all filthy-blooded wizards due to the King’s kindness, they’d been witness to Heir Malfoy’s disastrous attempt to mount a hypogriff. Hypogriffs required being bowed to. But the thought of Heir Malfoy bowing to anyone other than the King was beyond preposterous. Needless to say that the hypogriff, not understanding wizarding etiquette, had not taken to Heir Malfoy’s perceived lack of respect very kindly.

  
Therefore, it was rather odd to watch the pureblood Captain fly in on a hypogriff. He wasn’t Heir Malfoy. But he was  _a_ Malfoy. Caecilius Malfoy, to be precise. Pronounced ‘KAY-SEE-lyus’ as the man had later insisted they all knew. Harry-James didn’t see the point. The whole squad was made up of disgraced half-bloods and mudbloods. None of them would be calling him anything but Captain Malfoy.

  
“Now, then,” said Captain Malfoy, “line up so I can see all of you.” They immediately obeyed. Everyone here was glad and eager for the chance to serve the King and his armies. This was how they proved that His Highness’ trust in them wasn’t misplaced. Or, at least, that’s how Harry-James understood everyone’s rapid compliance. Captain Malfoy certainly seemed pleased at their discipline.

  
“I must say,” said the Captain, “I was not very happy to be assigned to a team of mudbloods. I thought it a punishment for displeasing our King. But, this little display gives me faith.” Harry-James beamed and, next to him, Hermione was practically vibrating from the praise.

  
Over the next few months, Captain Malfoy trained them ruthlessly. They learned everything, from muggle hand-to-hand combat to surviving in muggle territory should they find themselves stranded in it.  
The hand-to-hand combat had been confusing until Captain Malfoy had told them that the Order was proficient in creating magic-free zones that cut off anyone’s access to their own magic. Ten years ago, the DE Corps had lost an entire squadron because the Order members were trained in muggle combat and the Death Eaters had been useless without their wands. Now, Death Eaters were issued a standard poisoned dagger and scaled, retracting armour to protect them in the magic-free zones.

  
“How do they even do it?” asked Hermione, one day, as they were putting equipment away. She started passing around vials of dittany for the inflamed Dark Mark everyone sported. Even two weeks after they had taken it, the Mark still hurt, especially after they used copious amounts of magic during trainings. “These magic-free zones. How do they cut off our access to magic?"

  
“I’m not quite sure,” admitted Captain Malfoy. He’d grown fond of her despite her endless questions and the fact that she was a simple mudblood. He thought her appropriately inquisitive and most likely to survive out of the twenty of them (“I resent that,” had joked Justin Finch-Fletchley). “I believe they use some sort of muggle principle. Though which one, I wouldn’t know.” And that was that. Who were they to question a pureblood, anyways? 

  
Harry-James’ favourite part of training was land and air obstacle courses. On land, it was all about muscle strength and reflexes. They jumped over ground that shot up, avoided triggering the magic-free zones, danced around exploding flowers (apparently, the Order was not beyond using the most innocuous things to cause damage), and spelled their shoes to walk over sudden quagmires. Hermione admired the Order’s creativity. Even more admirable was the fact that they seemed to have charmed all these war gadgets to explode if touched by a non-order member. Quite a few Death Eaters had died trying to obtain the gadgets for replication purposes. So, while the DE corps could replicate their effects, they had no way of understanding how these objects worked or how to effectively counter them. All they could truly do was learn how to avoid them.

  
Then, there was sky obstacle courses.

  
The sky courses were simply marvelous. Harry-James had never felt freer than when he was on a broom and Death Eaters, even the mudbloods, had access to the latest in broom technology. Harry-James' firebolt was like an extension of himself. He soared and dipped and spun and spiralled in the sky. There were clouds of poison gas to avoid, metal birds that bit and didn’t let go, and sudden appearances of solid ice sheets. If the Order wasn’t so adept at invention, Harry-James would wonder how they even managed to be standing after fifteen minutes of casting any of these things.

  
“Who leads them?” asked Susan Bones. She was covered in blisters from a non-lethal version of the poison cloud and slowly revolving on herself to allow Hermione to heal what she could before sending her to the Infirmary. Captain Malfoy looked around, as if he expected someone to jump out of the bushes. He waved for them to come close, in a circle around him.

  
“The King doesn’t like to hear any of this,” said Captain Malfoy. “Best not be repeating this anywhere if you want your heads still attached to your shoulders. The Order used to be led by a man named Albus Dumbledore. The King breaks out in hives at the sound of his name, so never say it around him. Got it?” Everyone nodded and Hermione waved for him to continue as she healed the last of Sue’s boils. “Dumbledore died during the Great War. We thought things were over but, a mere few months later, attacks started again. They were more organised and ruthless and the top brass came to the realisation that Order leadership had changed to someone much more evil than Dumbledore could ever have dreamt to be. Whoever leads the Order now, they’ve murdered a much more significant amount of good men than Dumbledore ever did. They are the worst evil to have ever plagued our Kingdom.”

  
Harry-James and Hermione shared a shudder.

  
***

  
“Any news?” asked James. Severus Snape sighed and settled in a couch. Under the Marauders, the Mountain had become infinitely more comfortable as people now resided there 24/7. Severus remembered when the Mountain had been little more than a bunch of interconnected underground tunnels.

  
Now, it was a veritable castle that even sprawled above ground. How it remained undetected was beyond Severus. The Marauders had erased its location from everyone’s minds using that blasted memory-scrambler of theirs. The only ones who knew the Mountain’s location were the Marauders, themselves. Out of those, only James, who never left the Mountain, could divulge its position to anyone as he was its Secret Keeper. Everyone else could only reach it through a voice recognition spell that activated a portkey galleon. Severus begrudgingly admitted that the Marauders were probably the best thing to happen to the Order of the Phoenix.

  
“There is something,” admitted Severus, reluctantly. He didn’t know how to break this to James and, if someone had told him that he would, one day, find himself managing Potter’s feelings, he would have hexed them and laughed at their pain. But here he was, doing exactly that. “Perhaps you should call your friends. It’s not good news.” James stared warily but tapped on his mirror-com (clever little device that looked like a mirror and allowed you to contact anyone holding a similar device).

  
“Sirius,” called James. The mirror-com blinked a few times until Black’s voice floated from it in greeting.

  
“’Lo,” said Black.

  
“I need you and Moony in my office, please,” said James.

  
“Yessir,” joked Black. Severus could imagine him standing at attention like a muggle soldier on the other side of the mirror-com. James sighed in exasperation and, a few minutes later, Black and Lupin walked in to the office.

  
“Snivellus!” greeted Black, cheerfully. He clapped Severus on the back and sat down, right next to the latter. Severus stared pointedly at all the open space left on the couch but that only prompted Black to wrap himself around Severus like the big lug of an oaf he was. If Severus had known that having a tearful heart-to-heart with the Marauders would lead to this, he would have gone to his tomb without an apology in their direction. As it was, it seemed that he’d ended up filling in the gaping hole of Pettigrew’s absence. This thought was only further solidified when Lupin piled onto Black’s back and squished all of them into the very corner of the couch.

  
“Boys,” warned James. It did phased neither Black nor Lupin. At a loss, James shook his head and waved for Severus to give his news.

  
“Fine,” Severus sighed. “You truly won’t like this, James.”

  
“Is it that bad?” worried James.

  
“Terrible,” confirmed Severus. “Harry has joined the DE Corps.”

  
_“What?!”_ screamed Black. James went pale and seemed to tremble.

  
“We always knew this was a possibility,” muttered Lupin. He rubbed his face in his hands.

  
“Has he…,” began James. “Has he taken the Mark?”

  
“I wish I could say no,” said Severus, grimly.

  
“This wouldn’t have happened,” growled Sirius, “if you’d brought him back all those years ago, like we asked you to.”

  
“And blown my cover,” argued Severus. “How exactly do you imagine you’ve been staying so far ahead of you-know-who, all this time? If I’d done as you said, we wouldn’t have even known about the taboo on _his_ name until _after_ we’d been caught.”

  
“Severus is right,” said James. “This isn’t that big of a deal. We’ll just have to be careful when he joins the war.”

  
“That will severely impede our efforts,” Severus pointed out. “And, it would paint a target on his back if the DE noticed us avoiding him like the plague.”

  
“What do you propose then?” asked Lupin. “We can’t put Harry in danger.”

  
“I might have a solution,” said Severus. “Every now and then, muggles encounter magic in some way, shape, or form. You-know-who sends his Death Eaters to erase the muggles’ minds and all traces of magical activity.”

  
“Why doesn’t he just kill them?” questioned Black. “He’d never shied from it, before.”

  
“I might have pointed out,” said Severus, smugly, “that, if too many muggles disappear, we won’t be able to maintain the secrecy much longer.”

  
“Good job, Snivellus,” cheered Black.

  
“Anyhow,” continued Severus, “the purebloods don’t like to be put in contact with filthy muggles. So, perhaps I could suggest a solution to His Highness. A certain Mudblood Squad that could deal with the muggle issue. Of course, the issue would have to be significant for you-know-who to dedicate a whole squadron to it.”

  
“And that’s where we come in,” completed James. “We create disturbances in the muggle world and you get Harry’s squad assigned to dealing with it.”

  
“Precisely,” said Severus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how did you like it? Leave a Kudo or a comment. Anything is appreciated! (Although I will beg shamelessly if it gets you to leave a comment!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Voldemort is here!

Severus stared at Lucius Malfoy, seated across him at the council table. They awaited the King’s arrival impatiently. Lucius, to propose whatever new restriction on muggleborns he’d come up with, and Severus, to possibly save Lily’s silly boy. The King had called this meeting half an hour ago. Yet, he was still to show. Severus waited and waited. The other Lords and Ladies began to fidget around and Severus’ own fingers were now drumming a rhythm on the tabletop. Finally, after almost an hour, the King came in.

  
King Voldemort was an exercise in contradictions. During the Great War, he had no objection to showing his monstrous face. He even used it to spur his troops into utter submission through fear. But now… Now that he ruled Britain’s Wizarding Kingdom, he hid his face behind an embroidered organza veil. It was so heavy with gold thread that one could barely make out the King’s eyes and even those were nearly hidden on account of how often the man favoured a red veil rather than any other colour.

  
“So,” said the King. “Shall we begin?”

  
“Yes, Your Highness,” said Lucius, eagerly. He pulled out a stack of parchment rolls. Oh, dear. This was going to take too long.

  
“I think,” interrupted Severus, “that General Crouch and I should be the ones to start this meeting today.” Lucius spluttered, turning red.

  
“What could a filthy half-blood have to say,” snapped Lucius, “that could be more important than what I have to say?”

  
“Excuse me?” asked the King. _“Filthy?”_

  
“Oh, boy,” muttered Crouch. He turned away from the King, probably to hide his mirth. _Oh, boy, indeed,_ thought Severus. They had no way of knowing what the King’s expression was under the veil but whatever it was, it didn’t bode well for Lucius, seeing as the King was a half-blood himself. It wasn’t common knowledge but all members of the council were well aware of it. Sometimes, Severus thought that Lucius secretly resented the fact. The man in question paled till his skin was almost the same shade as his hair.

  
“I believe,” said the King, “that I will be hearing everyone else before you, Lucius. Unless, that is, you do not take orders from a ‘filthy halfblood’. Hmm?”

  
“No, of course, Your Highness,” agreed Lucius, immediately. He put away all his scrolls and sat ramrod straight in his chair.

  
“Well, then,” said the King, turning to Severus, “what is it you had to say, Severus?” This was it. This was his chance to keep Harry out of harm’s way. Severus had to be very careful not to make it seem like he was protecting the muggleborns. It would take some careful maneuvering but the purebloods had already offered him an excellent excuse.

  
“Your Highness,” said Severus, “General Crouch has been receiving increasingly troubling reports from his men posted in the muggle territories. It seems there has been an increase in magical sightings.”

  
“Are they muggle-hunting, again?” asked the King, sounding exasperated. “I said once a year. How hard is it to understand?”

  
“No, Your Highness,” said General Crouch. “The disturbances aren’t coming from our side. It’s the bloody Order of the Flaming Chicken! I don’t know what they’re playing at, but it’s becoming a real nuisance.”

  
“The pureblood death eaters,” explained Severus, “aren’t very happy at having to deal with the muggles. They’ve been complaining constantly and it’s quite irritating. Work barely gets done.”

  
“What did I make you Field Marshall for?” asked the King. “Can you not control your own soldiers?”

  
“We could discipline them,” agreed Severus, “but General Crouch and I have come up with a solution that might suit everyone’s needs.”

  
“And what is that?” prodded the King.

  
“Your Highness, do you remember Captain Malfoy?” asked Severus.

  
“The irritating idiot I put in charge of the mudbloods?” said the King.

  
“Precisely, my King,” said Severus. “Mudbloods! We could send them to do the dirty work and do away with the purebloods’ complaints.”

  
“That’s a marvelous idea,” said Lucius. “I always did wonder what we would do with a mudblood squadron. That seems to be a perfect solution.”

  
“Hmm, it does, doesn’t it?” hummed the King. “Tell me something, Severus. Isn’t that boy in Caecilius’ squadron?”

  
“What-what boy, Your Grace?” asked Severus, heart hammering in his chest. The King drummed his fingers on the table and tilted his head. Of course the bastard knew. Severus wondered what had given him away. All his occlumency shields were still perfectly erect.

  
“You know, Severus,” murmured the King. “You know which boy.” Severus swallowed past a ball in his throat. How was he to answer this without losing his head? At length, when Severus did not answer, the King let out a low chuckle. “You should see your face.”

  
“Your Highness?”

  
“It’s fine, Severus,” reassured the King. “Protect him all you want. I don’t resent you for it. Take it as an apology for your mudblood.” How flippantly he said it, this rotten man. Severus clenched his fingers under the table and attempted to school his emotions so they did not give his true hatred away. An apology for his mudlood, was it?

  
“Thank you, Your Highness,” mumbled Severus. Across the table, Lucius watched this exchange with greedy interest. No doubt he would attempt to find out all he could about Harry. _Fuck._ Severus had given away his weakness and, now, the rest of these vultures would latch on to it. He looked around the table and those who sat at it: Rodolphus LeStrange, Minister of Finances; Alecto Carrow, Minister of Mudblood Education and Housing; Amycus Carrow, Minister of Pureblood Education; Antonin Dolohov, Minister of Intelligence; Evan Rosier, Minister of Mysteries; and Corban Yaxley, Warden of Azkaban. There were more ministers but those were missing, owing to their busy schedules. Still, even they would know all about Severus’ boy in the mudblood squadron soon enough.

  
Severus stared at his hands, hoping against hope that he hadn’t created a whole set of new problems for Harry. Otherwise, James would have his head.

  
***

  
**Thirteen years later**

  
“Gather ‘round, mudbloods!” called Captain Malfoy. “Second Lieutenants Potter and Granger are passing out assignment sheets. Take one and have a good look at them. You can’t take these to the muggle territories. Understood Creevey?” Everyone turned exasperatedly fond looks on Dennis. The young man turned several shades of red.

  
“It happened _one_ time,” spluttered Dennis. “And we erased the muggle’s mind immediately.”

  
“One time too many,” said the Captain. “And our job is to take care of already existing instances of magical exposure. _Not_ to create our own accidents. It’s already a waste of magic to be obliviating muggles. Must you create more waste?”

  
“Sorry, sir,” mumbled Dennis. Harry-James ruffled the boy’s head.

  
“Don’t take it to heart,” said Harry-James. “He’s only worried about you.”

  
The second Lieutenants picked five privates each and went off, leaving the rest of the squadron for reinforcement. In the thirteen years since its creation, the Mudblood Squad, as they were commonly nicknamed, was rarely ever deployed to the frontlines. Their main mission had remained as an acting policing force of sorts to maintain magical secrecy in the British isles. They dealt with everything, from flying cars to Order-related disturbances in the muggle territories.

  
They came back, later that afternoon, looking worse for wear. Apparently, the Order had decided to stick around and play with remote-controlled fire-breathing kittens. Kittens! The Order only got more creative as the years passed and they didn’t hesitate to stoop to playing dirty by using muggle sciences. They were lucky that true wizarding society, as established by their Great King, had too much dignity to follow in the Order’s blood-traitor ways.

  
“Potter,” called Captain Malfoy, running into the barracks and looking like somebody was threatening his kneazle with a knife.

  
“Sir!” said Harry-James, standing at attention.

  
“Ah, there you are, boy,” said Captain Malfoy. “I need to put you on guard duty tomorrow night during the Liberation Day festivities. Now, I know this was supposed to be your rest day, but one of the guards went and got himself sick. Sick! Can you believe it? The gall on this little half-blood!”

  
“But,” said Harry-James, “guard duty is a private’s job. I’m a Second Lieutenant.”

  
“Yes, yes,” said Captain Malfoy. “I know that and I’m terribly sorry for making you do work that is so far below your station. But all the other halfbloods, including those under your command, have postings tomorrow. We can’t well ask one of the pureblood privates to come in, can we?” That was indeed a rather preposterous idea. Even Harry-James knew that. Purebloods working on Liberation day. Hah! What next? Aggressive mooncalves?

  
“What about the mudbloods?” asked Harry-James.

  
“Come now,” scolded Captain Malfoy. “The posting is in the Throne Room. You’d have me put a damned mudblood in the same room as His Highness?”

  
“Oh,” said Harry-James. “Of course not. I didn’t know it was the Throne Room. I would never have suggested it, if I’d known.”

  
“I know, my boy,” agreed the Captain. “I know. I have great hopes for you, kid. Well, then. It is decided. You’ll report to the Throne Room tomorrow at 1500, sharp. See you then, my boy.”

  
“Oh, will you be part of the Malfoy delegation, then?” asked Harry-James.

  
“Yes,” beamed Captain Malfoy. “Heir Malfoy insisted, this year. Something about presenting a united front for His Royal Highness. You didn’t hear it from me, but Heir Malfoy is a dab hand better at politics than his father. I hear the King has been hoping old Lucius kicks the bucket very soon.”

  
“He seems quite healthy to me,” said Harry-James.

  
“One can always hope,” sighed Captain Malfoy. “One can always hope. He’s the reason why I never made further than Captain in nearly twenty years, you know?”

  
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” said Harry-James. He _had_ found it rather odd that Captain Malfoy had spent so long as their Captain. He’d never asked as he hadn’t wanted to put his Captain in an embarrassing position. Well, now he had an answer.

  
“Never you mind that,” said Captain Malfoy. “Heir Malfoy seems much more partial to me. I’m sure I’ll be promoted as soon as that old coot of a father of his passes on his position.”

  
“That’s the spirit, sir,” cheered Harry. Captain Malfoy clapped him on the shoulder.

  
“Potter,” said Captain Malfoy, “don’t go repeating this and don’t let it get to your head, either. You, my boy, are like the son I never had. If I had a son or a daughter, I couldn’t have been happier if they turned out like you.” For a moment, Harry-James stood there, at a loss for what to say or do. This was completely unexpected. Sure, the Captain had always seemed to have a softer spot for him than any of the other members of the squadron. But to go so far as to hold fatherly affection for Harry-James.

  
“I-I don’t know how to answer,” stuttered Harry-James.

  
“Well, don’t say a thing,” said Captain Malfoy, “and give this old man a hug.” Hesitantly, Harry-James did exactly that and, when Captain Malfoy folded his arms around Harry-James’s back, the young man thought that this must be what it was like to have a father. To be someone’s child. Unbidden, tears began to fall down his cheeks.

  
“There, there,” soothed the Captain. “I’ll be looking for you, tomorrow, when we go reaffirm allegiance to the King. You’d best dry your tears and look sharp for me.”

  
“I will,” blubbered Harry.

  
***

  
**The next day**

  
“I would say thank you,” said the King to Harry-James, “for saving my life. But I have a feeling this trident sticking out of your stomach is a much more important matter at this point.”

  
“I couldn’t have put it better, Your Grace,” agreed Harry-James, before fainting from blood-loss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What?! What?! Ooh, boy. 
> 
>  
> 
> _What's happening?!_
> 
>  
> 
> Tune in next chapter. 
> 
> Peace out dudes!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter. Four in four days! Oof, i'm on a roll! 
> 
> Don't get used to it.

At 1500 sharp, Harry-James reported to the Throne Room. A young Death Eater gave him a hurried report before running off. He was part of the Dawlish delegation, it seemed, but had had to do a shift that day because he was merely a half-blood and half-bloods did not get out of work on Liberation Day. Harry-James waved him off and wished him luck.

  
“Remember to stay at the back!” advised Harry-James as the young man ran away.

  
“Yes sir!” called the Death Eater.

  
Harry-James took his spot, five metres from the closest two Death Eaters. They both greeted him, then turned to stare ahead. The reaffirmation ceremony would begin soon and already, the hall was filled with non-noble high-level purebloods. Harry-James had never seen so many of them in the same place. Even when Harry had been a private, his squad had never been called upon to guard the Throne Room. Though that might have to do with the fact that his squad was mostly mudbloods.

  
At length, the King finally entered. He was followed by a delegation of Death Eaters in golden robes that fanned out at the base of the raised dais upon which sat the King’s throne. It was a good twenty steps above the ground and allowed their King to gaze upon the rest of them like the God he was. Harry-James was filled with awe but that was only to be expected. And to think that the King had been the one to personally rescue Harry-James from the Orders’ brainwashing. Of course, being a half-blood, Harry-James would never be able to personally thank the King. But actions spoke louder than words. Harry-James’ thanks came in the form of his loyalty.

  
The evening proceeded as scheduled and the noble houses came to reaffirm allegiance to King, one by one. Finally, at around 1800, it was the Malfoys’ turn. Harry-James stood on his tiptoes to try and see if he could catch Captain Malfoy’s eye. But it wasn’t the Captain’s eye he caught. Instead, Heir Malfoy stared back.

  
Ashamed to be caught, Harry-James went to stand normally but Heir Malfoy subtly shook his head. He turned his nose towards the Captain and Harry-James followed, hesitantly. This time, he did catch Captain Malfoy’s eyes. But the man’s gaze only slid past him, as if he did not recognise Harry-James at all. How odd. Harry-James turned back to Heir Malfoy who stared at him as if to say: _See?_ He waited until Captain Malfoy had turned away to slowly raise his fingers towards his eyes, then point at Captain Malfoy. The message was clear enough: _Watch him._

  
Harry-James did as told. He kept a close eye on Captain Malfoy. Several things were odd about his behaviour, the least of which was the fact that, after the reaffirmation ceremony, he did not once come to greet Harry-James. That was extremely odd as Captain Malfoy had made it a point to let his whole squadron know that he preferred hanging out with the halfbloods than waste any time with the ‘stuffy’ purebloods, as he called them. Yet, here he was, socialising with purebloods and not even glancing at the half-blood guards.

  
“Something’s wrong,” said Heir Malfoy as he walked up to Harry-James. “I need you to go talk to him. You know him best.”

  
“Yes, sir,” agreed Harry-James. He made his way through the throng of purebloods, trying to make himself as small and unobtrusive as possible. Finally, he reached Captain Malfoy. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder. Immediately, the Captain turned around and slapped Harry-James’ hand away.

  
“How dare you touch me, mudblood,” roared Captain Malfoy.

  
“Mudblood?” repeated Harry-James.

  
“Mudblood,” whispered Heir Malfoy, who had followed Harry-James. The impostor seemed to realise his mistake when all the purebloods who knew Captain Malfoy began to repeat the term. While Captain Malfoy did use the term to refer to mudbloods like Hermione, he’d never used it to refer to anyone in a derogatory way. He’d certainly never been unkind to any half-blood or mudblood.

  
Harry-James pulled out his wand, allowed his scaled armour skinsuit to emerge from where it resided below his skin, and pulled his poisoned dagger from his belt. He placed wand and dagger under the impostor’s chin.

  
“Who are you?” hissed Harry-James.

  
_“Shit,”_ muttered the impostor. His eyes shifted to the side and Harry-James followed his line of sight. Immediately, Harry-James apparated just in time to stand over the King. The trident pierced his stomach, through his armour, as if it had been a paper screen over his flesh. The second attacker started to run but was overtaken by Death Eaters who piled on him and slapped magic-blockers onto his wrists. One Death Eater knocked him out with a stupefy to the head. Heir Malfoy and a few other Death Eaters did the same to the fake Captain Malfoy. From his position, next to the King, Harry-James scanned the room for other threats. But it seemed that the two were the only danger. 

  
“I would say thank you,” said the King to Harry-James, “for saving my life. But I have a feeling this trident sticking out of your stomach is a much more important matter at this point.” Harry-James looked down. He retracted his armour and inspected the wounds. The skin around the punctures was turning a purplish black and the colour seemed to be spreading infinitely slowly. _Poisoned,_ thought Harry-James.

  
“I couldn’t have put it better, Your Grace,” agreed Harry-James, before fainting from blood-loss.

  
***

  
“What’s wrong with him?” asked Severus. He knelt over the inert body of the Death Eater that had saved Voldemort. Was this the son of Severus’ mudblood?

  
“If I knew,” said Voldemort, “I wouldn’t be standing here, doing absolutely nothing productive.”

  
“I don’t recognise this poison,” said Severus. He tore at the young man’s robes. The skin around the puncture wounds was purple and the colour seemed to be spreading. The attack had been intended for Voldemort and Severus didn’t recognise the poison… A poison that Severus did not recognise…

  
“Lift him,” ordered Voldemort.

  
“What?”

  
“Lift him,” repeated Voldemort. “I need to see the prongs.” Carefully, Severus lifted the boy. Clearly this was the mudblood’s son. One of the two that were prophesised to kill him. Load of nonsense, really. But, then again, if Voldemort hadn’t decided to do a bit of divining, himself, he might’ve fallen for it.

  
The prongs dripped red with the Death Eater’s blood. Voldemort raised a hand to try and separate the blood from the poison or any other foreign substance. But, lo and behold, nothing happened. Curious.

  
“There’s no poison,” said Voldemort. “No toxin of any sort. The trident isn’t poisoned.”

  
“But… Then,” said Severus, “what’s causing _this?”_ This being the purple skin. The trident had been meant for Voldemort. It couldn’t be, could it? Voldemort closed his eyes and felt out for the young man’s soul. Oh.

  
Oh.

  
There it was. Right on his soul. A deterioration, the size of an apple. This thing was attacking his soul. Which means that the trident had been designed to destroy Voldemort’s very soul. They knew. _They knew!_ And they weren’t about to bother destroying his horcruxes to end him. Somehow, the Order had come up with a better solution. Destroy the main soul and what use were the soul tethers.

  
But now was not the time to panic. Severus was staring at him, waiting for Voldemort to come up with something to save the boy. And, while Voldemort did not _need_ to save the young man, he did owe the Death Eater his life. And Voldemort could show a bit of gratitude every now and then.

  
“Has he ever killed?” asked Voldemort.

  
“He’s a Death Eater,” said Severus, as if that explained everything. And, well, it probably did. _“All_ Death Eaters have killed at least once.” It was true. All Death Eaters had to kill one prisoner on death row to show that they had what it took to be part of the Corps. He’d forgotten about that.

  
“That will do, I suppose,” said Voldemort. He reached into the young man and began to do the ritual on his behalf. It was the horcrux ritual, except that this wouldn’t make the young man immortal. The excised piece of soul was already dead and destroyed. It would not be tethering him to this plane.

Once the soul piece was excised, Voldemort pulled the trident out of the Death Eater’s body and placed the dead soul piece into it. He might have to experiment with both. See how the trident worked and if there was any way to reanimate the soul piece in it. “Heal the wounds. He should survive.” Severus promptly set to work and, soon enough, the young man was sleeping soundly, free of holes in his body. Well, the unnatural kinds, anyways. 

  
***

  
“He saved the bastard!” screamed Severus as soon as he portkeyed into James’ office. James raised an eyebrow and called for Moony. Sirius was out, in the field, waiting for news on the assassination.

  
“Who saved who?” asked James.

  
“Your _daft_ brat saved the King!” shouted Severus. James clenched his teeth at the news. He knew Harry was deeply loyal to you-know-who, but to go so far as to thwart their plans…

  
“How did he do it?” asked James.

  
“Jumped in front of the trident,” said Severus. “Took it in his own body.”

  
“Wha- How is he?” demanded James. “Is he alright?”

  
“Yes, he’s fine,” snapped Severus. “No thanks to you. He almost died. I thought you said that thing would only work on the King.”

  
“It was supposed to,” said James.

  
“Well, it _didn’t!”_ shrieked Severus. “It worked just fine on Harry and it started to destroy his soul! If the King hadn’t been there, Harry would be fucking dead!”

  
“He saved- _Why?”_

  
“How should I know?” said Severus. “I’m just grateful he did at least one good thing in his entire lifetime. Old bastard that he is. Why doesn’t he just croak already?!”

  
“You know _exactly_ why he won’t croak,” said James. “If you’d gotten us the stupid horcruxes, we wouldn’t be in this situation right now.”

  
“Oh, riiight,” sneered Severus, “blame _me._ If only you did this, Severus. If only you did that, Severus. Severus is almighty. Severus can just blink and shite gets done. Severus doesn’t have to worry about the _fucking dark Lord_ breathing down his neck. Fuck you _all,_ you piles of steaming hypogriff _dung!”_

  
“Methinks you broke Severus,” said Moony as he entered the office. “What happened?”

  
“Harry saved you-know-who,” answered James, grimly. Moony winced in sympathy. “I thought this was supposed to be his day off.”

  
“I don’t know what happened,” said Severus as he dropped down to lie horizontal on the couch. “I just know that shite went sideways when your idiot of an assassin couldn’t pretend to be forking Caecilius Malfoy, correctly. Caecilius Malfoy. _Caecilius_ Malfoy. How hard was it to act like a moderate pureblood? Instead, your man went full Lucius Malfoy on Harry and the jig was up. Both assassins are in custody, right now. _Please,_ tell me you gave them cyanide pills.”

  
“They have one, each,” confirmed James.

  
“The King is going to keep an eye on Harry, now,” said Moony. “There won’t be any taking him out of there when the time is right, anymore.”

  
“Too risky,” agreed Severus. “The old man doesn’t like owing debts. He’ll be wanting to settle it as soon as humanly possible. I’ll bet my left arse-cheek he sticks someone to Harry like a niffler to silver.”

  
***

  
"Alright, I give up," said someone from behind Voldemort. He jumped and turned around with a barely restrained squeal. Well, the good news was that Voldemort had found the newly-minted Captain Potter. The bad news was that said man was frowning and holding a small, standard issue Death Eater dagger, dripping with poison. "Who are you and why are you following me?"

  
"The King's orders," answered Voldemort, wracking his mind to come up with an answer for the Captain's other question. His, supposedly, genius mind blew a raspberry and floated off. And that was why the following pile of steaming dung came out of his mouth. "My name is Tom Riddle and I am one of the King’s Healers."

  
Captain Potter's frown only deepened and Voldemort, both, cursed and lauded his choice to hide his own face behind a veil since the beginning of his reign. On one hand, the Captain could not tell that Voldemort was his King. On the other, the Death Eater seemed about ready to start slicing Voldemort's face off with that dagger of his.

  
Joy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyyy! That snippet that started this whole thing! 
> 
> Please leave me comments. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Or Darth Maul will find you._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while! 
> 
> Many thanks to Darkkbluee for helping me get past my little setback. 😘

**A few days ago**

  
“Do we know what happened to Caecilius?” asked Voldemort, standing over Second Lieutenant Potter’s cot in the Royal infirmary. Severus stood on the other side.

  
“Not yet,” answered Severus. “But we’ve got Death Eaters working on it.”

  
“And how’s this one?” asked Voldemort. Three days after the assassination attempt, Second Lieutenant Potter was still unconscious. Voldemort was beginning to wonder if he’d somehow failed at saving the young man. But then again, he’d amputated the Death Eater’s soul. There was no telling how exactly Potter would be healing.

  
“No change, Your Grace,” sighed Severus.

  
“Hmm, I wonder,” hummed Voldemort. He closed his eyes and reached out for the Second Lieutenant’s soul. The amputated part seemed to be reaching out for the missing piece of soul. Could Voldemort approximate it to bleeding? The soul did seem to be leaking into the void left by the ripped soul piece. Voldemort’s soul had never done that. But, then again Voldemort’s soul pieces had still been active, even outside their flesh coil. There was never any void in his soul. Only a major stretching.

  
What to do? What to do?

  
Voldemort pulled up a chair and sat down next to Potter’s cot. This was going to be quite the process. He pulled up his sleeves and took out his wand. This was going to be quite hard already without the unnecessary wandless showboating. Voldemort took a deep breath and reached out for the Second Lieutenant’s soul. He felt around for the edges of the void that was the destroyed piece of soul.

  
Could he cauterise this? But with what? Emotion? Raw magical energy? Perhaps cauterisation was out of the question. But what did that leave him with. Approximating the edges would require stretching the sides of the soul wound and there was no guarantee that they would not simply snap back into position, given time. Voldemort twirled his wand as he pondered the difficulty of this situation.

  
What to do? What to do?

  
He _could_ simply leave the Second Lieutenant to his fate. Voldemort had done everything he could, had kept the man from losing his life. It was no duty of his to make sure that Potter actually had a life after this. But, something did not sit quite right with Voldemort at the thought of leaving this man in a comatose state. Potter _had_ saved his life and Voldemort would be remiss to leave him like this. So, the question remained.

  
What to do? What to do?

  
What did people do when they broke something they needed? They got a new one.  
How does one get a new soul? One does not.  
What to do, then? If not a new soul, then what?

  
The solution came to Voldemort as he kept twirling his wand. There, on his finger, sat his Grandfather’s ring. A ring that held a piece of Voldemort’s soul.

  
A piece of soul.

  
Voldemort raised his head. That was it, wasn’t it? Potter wasn’t missing a whole soul. He was missing a _piece_ of soul. A _piece_ of his soul had died and been removed from him. And Voldemort just so happened to have _live_ pieces of soul outside his own flesh coil. Voldemort could fill in the void with his own soul piece.

  
But dare he?

  
Potter was human. Soft, pink, and human. Breakable. Killable. Destroyable.

  
But horcruxes could only be destroyed through very specific means. Those means were rare and few in between. Potter would be quite safe as long as he did not wander near fiendfyre or basilisk venom. And Potter was part of the mudblood squad. Their job was dangerous from time to time. But, mostly, they dealt with harmless muggles. And, as far as Voldemort knew, they’d never encountered anything dangerous enough to warrant any fear that Potter could accidentally die. And there was one more exciting possibility to making a living horcrux:

  
_Possession._

  
The only issue that remained was Potter’s own mortality. This man could age and die and Voldemort didn’t want another immortal walking around.

  
“I can take it back when he’s old,” muttered Voldemort.

  
“Take what back?” asked Severus. Voldemort jumped in surprise. He’d completely forgotten that Severus was still standing there.

  
“Nothing,” said Voldemort. He waved Severus away, trying to make it seem like it was a random muttering. It wouldn’t do to have Severus know what he was doing. He waited until Severus was gone before setting to work.

  
First, he reached into his own soul to find a tear in it. Once he’d found a satisfactory tear, he began to chant the required spell. It took about half an hour to finish and, by the time he was done, Voldemort found himself cussing at Herpo the foul for the sixth time in his lifetime. He bent over the unconscious Death Eater and opened his mouth wide. Then, he raised his veil, opened his own mouth, and willed the soul piece to come out of it. It fell from his parted lips into Second Lieutenant Potter’s open mouth. Finally, Voldemort reached back for Potter’s soul and watched as the soul piece settled in the void of Potter’s own destroyed soul piece. Immediately, Potter’s soul reached out for Voldemort’s soul piece and fused with it.

  
Fused with it.

  
As in, became one with it.

  
As in, became part of Potter’s soul so that there was no telling where Voldemort’s soul began and where Potter’s soul did.

  
That wasn’t supposed to happen.

  
_Well, shit._

  
***

  
“What did you people do with Caecilius Malfoy?” asked Severus.

  
“I’m fine, thank you,” said Black, blithely. “And you?” Severus rolled his eyes and repeated his question.

  
“No idea,” answered Black. “Edgar and Fenwick probably knocked him out and left him somewhere, I guess. I’m not clear on the details seeing as they were both captured.”

  
“He better be alive,” said Severus. “He's a nice bloke, that one.”

  
“Cross my fingers, then,” said Black. “Wanna play?” He pulled a wizarding chessboard from his pocket and started placing the pieces as he found them. Severus sat across from him and they started playing.

  
“Harry’s stable but still comatose,” said Severus. “You-know-who was working on him when I left.”

  
“Why didn’t you stay?” asked Black as he moved his first pawn.

  
“The old coot wanted me gone,” said Severus. “Couldn’t well stomp my feet and demand to stay, could I?”

  
“I woulda paid to see that,” snorted Black. “What kind of monster does he have to be, to know how to heal a destroyed soul?”

  
“The kind that we’re grateful to,” said Severus. He took one of Black’s rooks.

  
“Ugh,” bemoaned Black. “What has the world come to? Indebted to fucking He-who-won’t-kick-the-damn-bucket. How low we’ve fallen.”

  
“Tell me about it,” agreed Severus.

  
“Why d’you think he saved Harry, anyways?” asked Black as he readied to put Severus’ King in check. Severus smirked as he pulled his Queen back and took the offending bishop. “Drat. I was blindsided.”

  
“I told you,” answered Severus. “He doesn’t like owing debts to anyone. A life debt needs to be repaid ASAP.”

  
“Doesn’t strike me as the honourable sort,” said Black as he began to dance his own King around the board to avoid Severus’ Queen. “To be bothered with debts and whatnot.”

  
“Literally, that’s the only principle he has,” said Severus. “And I think it has more to do with his distrustful nature than any honour of any kind he may have.”

  
“Makes sense,” said Sirius. His Knight took Severus’ Queen and Severus was finally seeing the trap that Black had been slowly working on. In two more moves, he would be in checkmate.

  
“Impressive,” said Severus.

  
“Thank you,” grinned Sirius.

  
***

  
**Back to the present**

  
“King’s healer,” repeated Captain Potter. Voldemort nodded frantically, pulling out a fake ID he conjured into his pocket. Captain Potter inspected it, narrowed his eyes at Voldemort, stared at the ID again, and slowly relaxed.

  
“Why would the King have one of his healers follow me around?” asked Captain Potter. Yes, Voldemort. Why _would_ you have a royal healer follow a mere half-blood? Good fucking job. Idiot.

  
“Err, the King healed you, himself,” said Voldemort. “He wanted a healer to follow you around. Make sure you’re doing well. Keeping away from stress. Resting up. You’re _his_ patient. So… I guess he’s just making sure you don’t fuck up his hard work.”

  
“Oh,” said Captain Potter. “Makes sense.” He nodded and started to walk away. When Voldemort did not immediately follow, he turned around and motioned for him to hurry along. It’d been a long time since anyone had dared do that to Voldemort. He stared for a second or two, then followed behind Potter.

  
“Where are you going?” asked Voldemort.

  
“Heir Malfoy asked for me,” answered Potter. “Captain Malfoy is still missing. Heir Malfoy might know how to find him. I’m going to help however I can.”

  
“Oh,” said Voldemort, dumbly. He followed Potter all the way, from the Death Eater Barracks to Malfoy Manor. They were greeted by a down-trodden house-elf by the name of Dobby. He guided them to a sitting room where Heir Malfoy was standing over a bubbling little cauldron. As they walked in, the young man pulled a hair from his crown and dropped it into the cauldron.

  
“Ah, Captain,” greeted Heir Malfoy. He noticed Voldemort and tilted his head to the side. “Who’s your friend?”

  
“Healer Riddle, apparently,” said Potter. “The King has stuck him to me to make sure I don’t undo his hard work.”

  
“Wise of His Highness,” said Heir Malfoy. “I’ve heard all about your recklessness from Uncle Caecilius. Now then, come here, the both of you.” Now, a Malfoy was ordering him around. Voldemort was regretting his decision to get to know Potter, more and more. They approached Heir Malfoy just as he ladled a bit of his silvery potion onto a map. For a moment, the potion did nothing. Then, it split in multiple directions, reaching towards different points on the map. When the potion stopped, Heir Malfoy bent in half, peering at the map.

  
“This one,” said Heir Malfoy, pointing to a location on the map. “I recognise every other location except this one.” Voldemort looked over Potter’s shoulder. It seemed to be somewhere in New Hogsmeade. So close to Hogwarts, itself.

  
“I’ll bring news,” said Potter to Heir Malfoy. The young man nodded and waved them both away. Voldemort had no time to feel ire at the action because Potter was already dashing away. He followed, almost running to keep up with Potter’s slightly longer legs. Once they were outside Malfoy Manor’s wards, Potter extended a hand to side-along Voldemort. He almost protested but Potter looked like he would tear him a new one if he did. So, he took the hand and they apparated to New Hogsmeade.

  
As soon as they landed, Potter took off towards the Hog’s Head. He pushed the tavern’s door open and rushed past the bartender. The man protested but Potter was in uniform and, when he pulled his wand, the bartender immediately stood down. Voldemort rushed after Potter, bumping into the bartender.

  
Who had electric blue eyes.

  
“Potter, wait,” said Voldemort. The Death Eater had run up the stairs to the rooms that were above the tavern. Voldemort was seized with an odd feeling of wrong. “Wait.” He grabbed onto Potter’s arm. “Wait.” He went back the way they came, not waiting to see if Potter followed him, down the stairs and into the tavern. The bartender was nowhere to be seen. Voldemort went into the back-room. Empty. The man had fled.

  
Electric blue eyes.

  
Potter had not followed him. Voldemort rushed back up the stairs. He was just reaching the landing when he was overcome by a powerful feeling of grief. Sorrow the likes of which Voldemort had never experienced before. It was near debilitating. But it was also alien and, while he wanted nothing more than to fall to his knees, Voldemort managed to force himself to the one open door in the long corridor. There, he found Potter.

  
And Caecilius Malfoy.

  
“I told you to wait,” whispered Voldemort as he fell to his own knees next to Potter. There was so much blood.

  
“He bled to death,” said Potter. The wound was on Caecilius’ neck, a gash the size of a small knife. “Like a muggle. Like a _fucking_ muggle.”

  
“Potter,” said Voldemort. As if saying the man’s name would bring him any comfort. It didn’t.

  
Instead the Captain opened his mouth and let out a pain-filled wail, the likes of which Voldemort had never heard. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. That happened. I hope you weren't too attached to Caecilius. 
> 
> Please comment. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Or Drogon will find you._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to RedHorse for beta-ing and Darkkbluee for helping me hammer out ideas for this chapter. 😘😘

An owl flew down to where Neville was sitting, staring at Godric’s Hollow from his perch in a tall oak. It was a letter from Papa. Papa wasn’t actually Neville’s father. He wasn’t much of a father, really, because he was always busy with something or another. He was just the guy that had adopted Neville when he’d had no one left. Neville looked down on Godric’s Hollow.

  
Godric’s Hollow was where Neville’s parents had been tortured to insanity.

  
Godric’s Hollow was where Neville’s grandmum had been fatally injured as she ran away with him.

  
Godric’s Hollow was where Papa’s wife was murdered and his son, his real son, stolen.

  
Godric’s Hollow was Neville’s personal Troy.

  
“How long are you going to sit there?” came Ron’s voice from the base of the tree. Ron was a friend of sorts. He had red hair cut close to his head and a scar on his cheek where he’d been stabbed with a knife. He was nice enough, half the time. The other half, he had the emotional range of a teaspoon. Neville liked him a lot. Like a lot, a lot. But Ron was either oblivious or he pretended not to notice. Both cases were equally dispiriting. “I saw the owl.”

  
“It’s Papa,” said Neville, climbing down from the tree. He handed it over to Ron, unopened. It hadn’t been addressed to him, anyways. Papa’s stupid owl just went around assuming that the man’s every letter sent in Neville’s direction was addressed to Neville, himself. They rarely were. “What’s it say?”

  
“That we’re wasting our time in Godric’s Hollow,” said Ron. “That they’ve confirmed what we’re looking for isn’t here. We should probably move, then.” Ron immediately went back to their tent, presumably to pack it up.

  
“Now, wait a second,” said Neville. “Do we even _know_ where we’re going next?” Ron nodded as he pointed to the map with his wand. An address lit up in red and Neville bent over the map to get a good look. “That’s smack dab in Muggle territory.”

  
“I noticed,” said Ron as he pulled Neville out of the tent. He went about shrinking the tent till it was pocket-sized. The whole thing went in Ron’s pocket which was enchanted to hold the entirety of Neville if necessary. _If_ necessary. Neville didn’t fancy being carried around in Ron’s pocket.

  
“Why the hell,” asked Neville, “would you think the old bastard would leave anything in Muggle territory? You _know_ how he hates them.”

  
_“Precisely,”_ said Ron. _“Everyone_ knows how he hates them. Who would even _think_ to look there?”

  
(If it isn’t clear by this point, note that Neville and Ron are definitely part of the Order of the Phoenix and that they are on the hunt for You-Know-Who’s horcruxes. Right, then. Back to your story. Carry on.)

  
“Oh,” said Neville. Ron wasn’t wrong but Neville had an idea that they’d probably find nothing at Wool’s Orphanage of all places. Somehow, he didn’t think that You-Know-Who would deign to grace the location of most his horrifying childhood with a precious piece of his soul. “D’you feel sorry for him, sometimes?”

  
“For who?”

  
“You-Know-Who.”

  
“I don’t know who,” said Ron, blithely. “That’s why I’m asking.”

  
“Really?” said Neville, rolling his eyes. Ron snickered and held out a hand to side-along Neville who was rather shit at Apparating.

  
“I don’t,” said Ron. “I don’t feel sorry for him, at all. Lots of people have suffered worse. Women get raped. _Kids_ get raped. People get killed for liking someone of the same sex. Others starve to death. Few become as twisted and horrible as him. And even fewer turn around and perpetrate those same horrors on everyone around them. So, no. I don’t feel sorry for him.” Neville stared at Ron, taking in what he’d just said.

  
“When’d you grow up?” asked Neville. Ron snorted and seized his hand, placing it in the crook of his elbow.

  
“Hold on tight, this time,” ordered Ron. “Don’t want a repeat of last time, do we?” Neville blushed and held on, extremely tight.

  
***

  
Harry-James and Healer Riddle were curled up in a corner, shock blanket around their shoulders. Healer Riddle had fallen into a fitful sleep against Harry-James’ shoulder after a bout of hiccupping sobs. He’d seemed rather shocked and mortified that he could even produce such sounds and Harry-James hadn’t known that the Healer had been so close to Captain Malfoy. All he knew was that they’d both sat there, holding each other and crying like the world was ending. Healer Riddle’s presence had been mildly comforting and Harry-James had somehow managed to regain enough brain power to call the Death Eaters.

  
Now, Healer Riddle was snoring quietly and Harry-James was staring, numbly, as the homicide Death Eaters worked around the room. Caecilius’ body had been removed a while ago and Harry-James had wanted to follow. But that would have meant parting from Healer Riddle and, right now, Harry-James just couldn’t bring himself to separate the two of them.

  
“Here,” said a Death Eater, kneeling before them. “Portkeys to St Mungo’s. See someone in Janus Thickey, would you?” He didn’t wait for Harry-James’ reply and immediately shoved the silver token into his hands. Healer Riddle hadn’t been touching it.

  
Immediately upon landing in St Mungo’s Portkey reception, Harry-James was seized with utter panic. Healer Riddle wasn’t there and the walls seemed to close in on Harry-James. He fell to his knees as his breathing became shorter and, eventually, every breath he drew was shallow and ineffective. A mediwitch immediately came to kneel by him and tried to talk him through whatever was happening.

  
“Listen to my voice, dear,” said the mediwitch. “Focus on the sound. It’s a simple panic attack. We can get through this, together. Breathe with me.” He grabbed her forearm and squeezed hard. She flinched but allowed him. He attempted to match his breaths to her own. It wasn’t working very well. She wasn’t the person Harry-James needed.

Then, there was a bit of commotion. Some invisible force pushed the mediwitch off of Harry-James. He watched in distant horror as she flew into a wall but was distracted by the sound of frantic running and a pair of arms that wound tight around Harry-James’ shoulders. It was as if Healer Riddle brought all the air back with him. Harry-James’ breathing slowed down and the walls stopped coming closer. And, through it all, Healer Riddle kept muttering something. It took a few moments for Harry-James to hear him over the sound of his own beating heart.

  
“Took you away,” Healer Riddle was muttering. “Opened my eyes and you were gone. Horrible bastards. Stay with me. Stay with me. _Stay with me.”_ It was like the man was saying everything Harry-James couldn’t. He wrapped his arms around Healer Riddle and pulled him onto his lap. Healer Riddle, following some odd instinct, wrapped his legs around Harry-James’ waist and put his arms around the Death Eater’s shoulders. They clung to each other as another bout of wracking sobs overcame Healer Riddle. Harry-James soon followed with his own grief.

  
***

  
Voldemort was somewhere between embarrassed and furious. He’d spent most of last evening being overcome by Captain Potter’s immense sorrow. It wasn’t his fault that he’d been conceived under Amortentia and, thus, had the emotional range of a goldfish. He’d never quite experienced grief, the true sort. Which, in retrospect, he should have known.

  
All these years, he had thought he knew what pain felt like, what loss, sadness, and the whole lot amounted to. Now that he was exposed to Captain Potter’s absolutely average emotions, Voldemort was beginning to realise that his own had been very pale copies of the real thing. Well, not _all_ of it. Voldemort’s sense of pride, humiliation, fear, and anger were above-average, thank you very much. But the rest of it… An ant was likely more emotionally developed than Voldemort.

  
That was where the embarrassment came from. The anger- The anger came from somewhere else. And that somewhere was currently the big spoon to his little spoon in a very narrow hospital bed.

  
Captain Harry-James Potter was currently deeply asleep and Voldemort was quite enjoying the reprieve from the mess of feelings. He was angry at the Captain for forcing him to come face-to-face with his own shortcomings. He was furious at the Captain for making him _feel_ in the first place. And he was positively livid that he absolutely did _not_ want to extricate himself from Potter’s arms.

  
Needless to say that Voldemort was very regretful of his hasty Horcrux-making decision. Really, what was he thinking? Putting his soul into another person’s body as if it was just candy he was giving away. There was no way to take the soul piece back because Voldemort did not know which part of Potter’s soul was originally his. How. Utterly. Infuriating.

  
“Are you better?” asked Captain Potter, voice still laden with sleep. His emotions were slowly rising and Voldemort could feel them again. But they were less of an overwhelming tsunami and more of a smoldering pyre. So, yes. Voldemort was feeling much better.

  
“Yes,” said Voldemort. “Just stay where you are.”

  
“I need the bathroom,” said Potter.

  
“We can go together,” said Voldemort. Who even cared about propriety anymore when Voldemort was absolutely certain he would have a nervous breakdown if Potter went more than five centimeters from him? Potter didn’t protest and carried Voldemort, princess-style, to St Mungo’s shower. Voldemort held on to Potter’s ear as he used the loo and they entered the shower together. Potter stood under the shower head with his back to Voldemort, arm curved behind his back so the latter could hold on. For a long moment they stood, naked, under the running water and did absolutely nothing. Then, Voldemort’s patience ran out.

  
“Just bloody _talk,_ already,” demanded Voldemort. The silence was irritating, eating away at that tiny bit of restraint that Voldemort thought might be somewhere in him. Potter didn’t turn around, didn’t say anything for a while. Voldemort was ready to scream in frustration.

  
“What do you want me to say?” asked Potter.

  
“I don’t _know,”_ protested Voldemort. “I’ve never comforted anyone. I don’t know what to do.”

  
“What kind of healer are you?” snorted Potter. His shoulders shook and Voldemort was certain he was crying. His sorrow remained an undercurrent at the back of Voldemort’s mind.

  
“Would you like me to ask the King?” asked Voldemort. “Ask him if you could torture the assassins, I mean. Maybe it can make you feel better.”

  
“Why would the King do that?” mumbled Harry. “I’m just a half-blood. You want to ask a favour for a half-blood? You’re out of your mind.”

  
“Merlin’s saggy-” cursed Voldemort, seeing the moment for what it was: an opportunity to thicken the blindfold of devotion on Potter’s eyes. “What do you think our King is? A block of marble? He has a heart too, you know. We are his people. Do you have any idea how much he _loves_ us?”

  
“I-I didn’t-” stuttered Potter.

  
“Of course you didn’t,” sneered Voldemort. “What would _you_ know of the greatness of our King? Of his infinite kindness, love, and patience for his people? I’ll be talking to him. I’ll be telling him of your situation. If he can, I’m sure our King will be receptive to your grief. I’m certain he will give you an opportunity for revenge.”

  
“Thank you,” whispered Potter. Finally, he turned around. He _had_ been crying. Probably. Voldemort couldn’t tell with all the water running down his face. At a loss for what to do, Voldemort picked up the tiny soap bottle and handed it over. Potter took it with a small smile. “Will you let go, now?”

  
Voldemort looked down at their joined hands and shook his head in the negative. So, Potter placed Voldemort’s hand on his neck. It was not as good as holding his hand but it was still something. Voldemort ordered Potter to hurry. He wanted this shower to be done, already. He wanted these _feelings_ to be done, already. When they were both clean, Potter carried him back to the hospital bed. Potter curled on his side and Voldemort settled in the crook of his body, legs over Potter’s thighs.

  
“Why can’t I let go of you?” asked Potter. Voldemort wondered the same thing. It could have to do with the strange bond created by their fused soul. It probably did. But Voldemort couldn’t very well tell _that_ to Potter, couldn’t let him know what sort of weakness Voldemort had exposed himself to.

  
“I don’t know,” said Voldemort. “Maybe you just don’t want to be alone. _I_ don’t want to be alone. Isn’t that reason enough?” Potter seemed very unconvinced but he didn’t question any further and they fell asleep, just like that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! That's out of the way. 
> 
> Please comment! 
> 
>  
> 
> _Or Crowley will bring down the telephone lines in your area_


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter whipped my arse. Hope you like it.  
> Thanks to @aroundloafofbread for beta-ing this chapter!

Harry-James stared at the man behind the glass. His name was Benjy Fenwick and that was all he’d told them. His companion had managed to swallow some sort of muggle poison that had been hidden under a cap in his tooth. He’d died almost instantly. But Fenwick hadn’t been so lucky. Fenwick’s poison had slipped out of his mouth and fallen to the floor. A Death Eater had shoved the little thing out of the way and petrified Fenwick. Now, Harry-James and Healer Riddle were staring at the bastard while he paced his glass cage.

Things had been strange between Healer Riddle and Harry-James since they’d found Caecilius’ body. They’d gone from complete strangers to being joined at the hip within less than twenty four hours. Even now, Healer Riddle refused to let Harry-James out of his sight. Still, he wasn’t, quite literally hanging from the Death Eater’s body anymore. Which was an improvement. Probably. But there was something odd between them. Something very wrong. Harry-James didn’t know what it was, but he knew it was something bad and he knew that Healer Riddle knew exactly what it was. It was obvious from the way he consistently diverted the conversation whenever Harry-James attempted to discuss what was happening to them. But this matter could be resolved later. Right now, Harry-James had something more important to do.

Right now, Harry-James had to torture a man.

Word had come from the King, last night, while Harry-James had been sleeping. Until that point, he’d been convinced it would be a long shot for the King to agree to let Harry-James in on the interrogation. But Healer Riddle had been right. The King was beyond kind and he had, graciously, allowed Harry-James’ participation. Of course, it was to happen within General Crouch’s presence.

General Crouch was a strange man, to say the least. He was very tall, with limbs that seemed to make up most of his body with how long they were. His brown hair was short, neatly combed and parted towards the right. He also had this tic where he constantly reached his tongue out to lick the side of his lips. Unlike most purebloods, and reminiscent of Caecilius, General Crouch deigned to greet Harry-James with a small wave of his hand before focusing back onto the prisoner. His hands twitched in time to Fenwick’s pacing, as if he was counting each step and would be drawing up an account of it, later on.

“I do wonder,” said General Crouch, nodding towards Healer Riddle, “what a Healer is doing here. Are we trying to keep him alive for as long as possible? Because that would be very nice.”

“I’m only following Captain Potter,” said Healer Riddle. “But I am happy to help if you need me.”

“Very nice,” repeated General Crouch with a too-wide smile. “Say… why isn’t the prisoner all trussed up? Isn’t it a risk, him walking around like that?”

“He’s no good at wandless,” answered Healer Riddle. “Besides, we drained him of most of his magic. He’s only got the necessary and the cage keeps siphoning anything that goes above the limit we set for him. It won’t work on anyone else, so you can enter without worry.”

“Whose devious plan was that?” chuckled General Crouch.

“The King’s,” answered Healer Riddle.

“Ah, of course,” nodded General Crouch. He licked the side of his lips, nervously, at the mention of the King. “No one else is smart enough, are they?” Healer Riddle and Harry-James nodded in agreement. He clapped his hands in front of himself and walked through the cell’s barrier. Harry-James looked at Healer Riddle, who nodded at him despite a slight tightening of his lips.

“You’ll be fine?” asked Harry-James.

“I can still see you,” said Healer Riddle. “I’ll survive.”

“Alright,” said Harry-James. He took a deep breath and walked through the barrier.

The cell was different from the inside than it was from the outside. The walls were entirely reflective and all Fenwick could see from it, was his own reflection. Of course, when the General and Harry-James walked in, he immediately stopped his pacing and waited in the far corner.

“Hello, there,” greeted General Crouch, cheerfully. He conjured a table and three chairs for them to sit in. Harry-James remained standing but the General and Fenwick took a seat. “Nice to meet you. I am General Crouch of the Death Eater Corps, our great nation’s first line of defense against terrorist threats. Like you, Mr. Fenwick.”

“Terrorist,” scoffed Fenwick. “If I’m the terrorist, what are you people?” In answer, General Crouch raised an eyebrow and tapped his fingers against the table.

“Oh, come on,” sighed the General. “Don’t be like _that._ I’m trying to make this a pleasant experience for the both of us. Do co-operate, please.”

  
“Or don’t,” cut in Harry-James, as per the plan. “I’d very much like you not to co-operate. You don’t get to torture co-operative prisoners.”

“Don’t listen to him,” advised General Crouch. “He’s _very_ angry, you see. Captain Malfoy was a sort of father to him and he’s quite unhappy that you killed him. Personally, I don’t get it. I never liked dads very much. But I can’t much account for Captain Potter, here, can I?”

“Father, huh?” said Fenwick, bitter smile on his lips. He turned around in his chair to glance at Harry-James, who stopped in the middle of what could only be described as prowling. “I knew your _real_ father. He would’ve died of shame, seeing you like this.” He stared pointedly at Harry-James’ uniform and the Dark Mark emblazoned on the left of his chest.

“He was a rotten blood traitor,” sneered Harry-James. “He dared defy our King and his great vision for our people.” Fenwick stared at Harry-James as if he’d grown a second head.

“Blood traitor?” repeated Fenwick. “You call fighting for your rights as a human being, treachery? Tell me, do you have friends with black skin?” That caught Harry-James off guard.

“What does that have to do with anything?” asked Harry-James, confused.

“Everything,” said Fenwick. “You wouldn’t think yourself above the likes of Zabini, would you? Pureblood Zabinis compared to half-blood you. Let me tell you something, _Captain_ Potter. The muggles used to do the same thing as your King. Except, their thing wasn’t blood purity. Theirs was the colour of your skin. If you went in the muggle world, back then, you and your white skin would have been so much more important than the Zabinis and their black skin.”

“That- that’s ridiculous,” said Harry-James. For the first time in his entire life, he was rather speechless. The premise that Fenwick was describing made no sense. Discrimination on the basis of skin colour? What rot. “What does skin colour have to do with anything. It’s not like the Zabinis can control it.”

“Can the muggleborns control it, then?” asked Fenwick. “Control being born magic despite their muggle parents? Did you control being born half-blood because your pureblood father loved your muggleborn mother? Answer me, _Hare-Bear_.”

“Hare-bear?” mumbled Harry-James, stumbling back. He fell to the floor, overcome by a terrible headache.

“ _Fly high, Hare-bear!_ ” Fly where? Mummy wouldn’t like this. Mummy would be mad. She’d told Daddy lots of times that Harry was very scared when he did this.

“ _Oh Hare-bear. Don’t cry. Mummy’s here._ ” His nose hurt so much. In fact, his whole face hurt. But Mummy made it better. She always made it better.

“ _Padfoot’s gonna getcha Hare-bear._ ” He squealed as he ran away from the big black dog. The dog caught him and rolled him between his paws till he was giggling so hard it almost hurt. Mummy scolded the dog for getting him dirty.

“ _See, Hare-bear? That’s the moon._ ” He was safe and warm and happy. This was a good place to be, to find out what the moon was. Mummy came to get him when he was almost asleep.

***

On the other side of the cage, Voldemort cried out and fell to his knees. Images inundated his mind.

A man with messy hair throwing a screeching baby in the air, only to catch him again with a grin splitting his face wide.

A red-haired woman soothing the baby who had just fallen flat on his face.

A big black dog chasing the baby who was now giggling and toddling as fast as his little chubby legs could carry him.

A shaggy man with a warm smile holding the baby and teaching him about the moon.

Distantly, Voldemort recognised the woman as Potter’s mudblood mother. He should have been overcome with disgust at the sight of her, this struggling bitch who had almost been the death of him through that bloody ritual sacrifice of hers. But all he could feel, all she inspired in him was utter love and a feeling of immense safety and belonging. He wanted to be with her, wanted to get closer, wanted to wrap his arms around her.

But just as he was reaching for her, Potter’s mind veered into darkness. The mudblood was holding her baby, murmuring to it about how everything would be okay and how she would protect him from the big bad man, outside. She was hiding in a closet, the baby clinging to her chest and Voldemort was overwhelmed with a feeling of safety and the certainty that he was loved.

No.

No. This was bad. This was very bad. Voldemort knew exactly what came next, had been the monster just outside the closet. He shot up, compelled by an urge to make sure Captain Potter did not see what came next, did not remember any of what he’d just seen.

As he scrambled into the cell, Fenwick and General Crouch watched them with calculating interest. Voldemort was more than conscious that he was revealing a terrible weakness but he was hard pressed to care as he focused on raising Potter’s spasming body into his lap and prying apart and keeping his eyes open as he performed legilimency. Their bond allowed him to slip into the Death Eater’s mind very easily.

“Obliviate,” he muttered, holding on to the specific memories and attempting to erase them from Potter’s conscious mind. “Obliviate. Obliviate. Obliviate.” Frantically, he continued to repeat the spell over and over again. It didn’t work. It absolutely refused to work and Voldemort was forcibly made to witness the horror of his mother, his safe and warm place, murdered at the hands of a monster that would most certainly haunt his dreams from now on. To Crouch and Fenwick’s consternation, he screamed as the monster in his mind ripped him from his mother’s arms and began to leave.

“Hush, now,” hissed the monster. “Soon, you will forget all about the silly little mudblood.” But Voldemort could not stop screaming for his mother. The monster was cold and frightening. He made Voldemort cry and cry.

“Oi,” came a voice to his side. Voldemort managed to separate from Potter’s mind long enough to notice Crouch’s hand on his shoulder. Voldemort should slap him for touching his royal body.

And that was enough.

That was all it took for Voldemort to remember himself. Potter was still spasming in his arms, eyes rolled back into his head, reliving his mother’s death over and over again.

“Somnus,” whispered Voldemort. And, finally, Potter relaxed fully. His body went limp, his eyes closed and his mind shut down. Voldemort sighed in relief as he was freed of the Death Eater’s emotions.

Worst. Horcrux. Ever.

***

**January 1982**

Sirius watched James pack his bags in silence. He wasn’t quite sure he didn’t believe this whole trip was a big stretch.

“Do you even know when you’ll come back?” asked Sirius. James did not slow down in his packing, throwing an additional pair of pink-tipped sneakers covered in cartoon mice into his backpack. He was travelling light, expecting to need only the bare minimum where he was going. “This is a bloody long shot and you know it, Jamie.”

“I have to try,” said James. “I have to try and it’ll take the time it bloody well takes. We need this, Padfoot. The old man has a honest-to-Merlin basilisk. He’s already overpowered as it is. If we don’t have a counter to his giant killer snake, we might as well roll over and die.”

“But _dragons?”_ insisted Sirius. “They’re classified a million x’s for a reason, you know? You could get yourself killed. What are Moony and I supposed to do, then?”

“I _won’t_ die, Sirius,” said James, determined. “Dragon Riding is in my blood. I’m meant to share a dragon’s soul. This is my destiny.”

“Destiny,” scoffed Sirius. “If this was your fucking destiny, why d’you reckon your ancestors decided to fuck off with dragons centuries ago? I’ll tell you why. _Dragons_ are _dangerous.”_

“The book was clear,” said James. “You need a special soul to bond with a dragon.”

“And you think you have that?” asked Sirius.

“I don’t know,” answered James. “All I know is that we need a dragon if we’re going to survive Voldemort and win.”

“We could just ask Scamander to train a few,” argued Sirius. “He’s done it before.”

“He’s old and retired,” retorted James. “Do you really think that man can wrangle dragons at his age?” Scamander was actually 85 and quite well-preserved considering his constant exercise as demanded by his chosen profession. He had a gift with beasts and would most certainly be able to train dragons for the Order, if asked. The problem was that James believed in destiny and destiny dictated that he brought back his bloodline’s dragon-bonding tradition.

“Fine,” said Sirius. “When you die, I promise I’ll write ‘Was fried by a dragon because… idiot’ as your epitaph.”

“You really are my best friend,” grinned James. He kissed Sirius on the cheek and walked away. Sirius watched him, praying to all the gods that the moron came back, not crispy.

***

**September 1983**

“Dave,” repeated James. The Chinese Fireball stared at James, eyes glinting in amusement.

“Yes,” confirmed the dragon. “My name is Dave.” James stared dumbly for quite a while. Dave rested his giant head on his front paws. His head was as big as a small house and his eye, the one facing James, at least, was as large as James was tall. His body could easily be the size of a small mountain and his palm-sized red and gold scales glistened like jewels and he rather preened when he caught James thinking about how beautiful they were.

“I bonded with a dragon named Dave,” said James. Dave responded to that with a sound that sounded similar to boulders grating on each other. Shocked, James realised that Dave was chuckling. He was _amused,_ the big lizard! “Why Dave?!”

“Because I like Dave,” answered Dave.

And, really, what was there to say to that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sweats profusely* I know, I know. Barty was grossly underused. But i'm just a birb. Cut me some slack, please. 
> 
> Please comment. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Dave is watching you._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huhuhu. I'm not deceased. thank you to aroundloafofbread and Luvaria for the beta. 😘😘

Ron and Neville stared at the opening in the side of the cliff. Neville wasn’t sure how they were expected to climb down there. Maybe they could find a bit of rope. Had they packed any? Then again, they were wizards and could most likely transfigure some. But Ron should do it since Neville wasn’t very good at Transfiguration. They’d end up as sea foam if he did it.

  
“I packed a broom,” said Ron. Oh, yeah, that would most certainly do. Flying a broom down was much safer than tying rope and hoping it didn’t fray too much against the scraggly rocks. But… then again, those howling winds didn’t seem very safe, did they?

  
“You reckon it’d be safe?” asked Neville. At that precise moment, a huge wave rose and met the cliff with a loud crash that sounded very much like glass shattering. Oh. Neville didn’t like the sound of that. Not one bit. "Maybe we can just Apparate on that rock over there.” He pointed to the sea. There, a few feet from the cliff, a jagged rock jutted out of the turbulent, inky sea water. It had just enough space for one person to stand on both feet and another, on one foot. Or on two, if the second person were the sort to have no compunction about standing on the first person’s foot. Neville wasn’t that sort. Ron was.

  
“Nonsense,” said Ron. “The broom will do just fine. Besides, I reckon Apparating in this weather would just increase our risk of Splinching. I don’t fancy our chances if either of us comes out Splinched on that rock. We’d be lunch for the fish in a matter of seconds.” He wasn’t wrong. The waves were rather massive, and the water seemed full of the most evil intent Neville had ever seen in an inanimate thing. ‘Come,’ it seemed to say. ‘Come and test yourself against us. We shall see who emerges victorious.’

  
Papa would’ve jumped in head first. Uncle Sirius would’ve cannonballed. Moony would’ve calculated things but, eventually, jumped in all the same. Even Ron seemed tempted to take a dive.

  
Neville wasn’t that kind of courageous.

  
“Well, come on, then,” said Ron, pulling the broom out of his pocket. He straddled it and stared at Neville, meaningfully. Neville stared for a moment, wondering how exactly he was supposed to place himself, so that this experience turned out to be the least embarrassing for him. Finally, he settled with his hands behind his back, holding onto the broom handle. “You’ll fall, silly. Hold on to _me.”_

  
This was quite possibly the last thing Neville wanted to do. He stared at Ron’s large back and hesitated with his hands hovering by his sides. As he contemplated what to do, Ron seemed to get impatient. He clenched the broom between his legs and reached back for Neville’s wrists. Flustered, Neville jerked forward till he was plastered to Ron’s back. He peered over Ron’s shoulder to see his wrists being locked around the other man’s waist. Neville’s heart nearly failed, right then and there.

  
***

  
Barty Crouch was the sort of man, who went through life appearing as air-headed as humanly possible and, when you least expected it, who would do something horrifying like stab you in that part of your back that you can’t reach no matter how hard you try. Or something similar, anyhow. He’d learned from King Voldemort, himself.

  
So, it must come as no surprise that, after half an hour of fruitless interrogation, Barty was now playing finger rugby with Fenwick. He’d learnt it from an American, a while back. They called it football. Barty had no idea what about rugby was even remotely similar to football, seeing as the oblong ball rarely touched feet. But Americans were a bit mad. And, really, American muggles were even madder than British ones. Still, finger rugby was lots of fun, really. But don’t tell the King. Barty wasn’t supposed to know so much about muggle sports.

  
“You’re crazy,” spat Fenwick, attempting to keep his finger goals as straight as possible, in spite of the pain. Barty looked up at him, smiling wide and nice. He placed the ‘football’ on the table, bit his tongue, aimed, and flicked. It didn’t work as well as a paper ‘football’. For one, it rolled instead of flying off. For another, its little nerve-tail slowed it down till it rolled to a stop in the middle of the table, not even close to Fenwick’s goal. “That’s my _eye._ Not a fucking _toy!”_

  
“Well,” said Barty as he watched blood trickle down Fenwick’s cheek from the empty socket where his eye used to reside, “this wouldn’t be happening if you’d answered the question. What did you do to my subordinate?”

  
“I believe,” answered Fenwick, “I told you to go get your fucking King, first. I won’t tell anyone but him.” Barty rolled his eyes and reached for the eye. He took a good look at the nerve hanging from it and decided he was going to cut it off, after all.

  
“Why does every idiot that comes through here think that My King has that much free time?” asked Barty. “And over a half-blood too. He wouldn’t come for a _pureblood._ Just _talk,_ already. I’m the best you’ll get.”

  
Of course, that was when the King decided to make a dramatic entrance.

  
***

  
“Those are dead bodies,” stated Ron, peering over the side of the lake. They’d been attempting to find their way to the centre of it for hours now. They had tried transfiguring boats from the surrounding boulders. But those had sunk the moment they had hit the water. Neville proposed swimming but that was before they’d taken a closer look at the water and noticed the piles and piles of dead bodies on the lakebed, resting like some monstrous beast’s treasure. Or, more accurately, a warning to all trespassers. Neither Neville nor Ron wanted to find out how all these people had ended up where they were.

  
That left the broom.

  
Neville wasn’t so sure about the broom. If Voldemort had had something in place for transfigured boats, how could they tell if he didn’t have something for brooms or other flying objects, as well. He could not be _that_ arrogant. Could he? Neville relayed the concern to Ron who picked a sizeable rock and performed a complicated bit of spellwork on it. The rock rose and flew till it was mid-way to the island in the middle of the lake. There, Ron allowed it to drop and graze the lake top. It had barely touched the surface when a long, pale hand reached up and snagged the rock from the air, swift as a deer.

  
“No touching the water,” said Ron, pensively. He looked up to the jagged rocks that jutted from the cave’s roof. Neville did not like the look of them. They made the flight space between the lake and ceiling rather small and he had a bad feeling about the whole affair. “We can’t take the broom two at a time.”

  
“Why not?” asked Neville. Ron sighed and straddled the broom.

  
“I can’t maneuver the broom with the two of us on it,” said Ron. “I wouldn’t be as agile and we could end up both falling into the water. We need to go one at a time. And it’s best if I go first, I think. One of us needs to send the broom back for the other and, no offense but, I don’t trust you with the finesse required to send the broom back without touching the water.”

  
Neville’s cheeks warmed up in shame. He was, by no means, bad at magic. Neville had trained for _years_ before they’d embarked on this journey. But everyone at the Order still seemed to see him as that kid who’d accidentally set Ginny Weasley’s robes on fire with an attempt at the Aguamenti spell. It hurt, coming from Ron and Neville should have corrected him, should have insisted that he was quite competent these days. But that little voice inside him, the one that made him second guess everything, told him that it wasn’t worth it. It told him that now was not the time for his _feelings._ He could get angry at Ron all he wanted when they were safe and outside this stupid cave.

  
Ron kicked off and flew the broom in a straight line to the centre of the lake. Once he’d landed on the island, he dismounted and sent the broom zooming back to Neville, who caught it in mid-air and stared at it in apprehension.

  
Neville had never been very good with brooms. When they’d had their first lesson, most of the Order children had taken to brooms with ease. Neville had been the only one who had to pick up his own broom. He had wobbled on it while the others had begun zooming around the mountainside and the forests below. He’d managed to fly it in a straight line while the others had begun flying hoops and dives and spirals.

  
“Get on!” urged Ron. Neville could not see his expression from where he stood, but he imagined it was a rather irritated one. Ron had never been the patient sort. So, Neville straddled the broom and braced himself for the upcoming flight. He kicked off, lightly, and floated above the shoreline for a moment. With a deep breath he guided the broom forwards. It wobbled. Of course it did. It’d been years since Neville had flown a broom on his own. But he managed to go in the right direction.

  
At some point, he had flown too close to the stalactites and was forced to bend his back so he did not hurt himself on them. Neville dipped the broom slightly, hoping to put some distance between himself and the rocks. It raced towards the lake. In a dazed panic, Neville pulled the handle back up and managed to stop only seconds before he hit the water. One of the corpses stared at him. Its eyes were glassy and unseeing but that did not stop Neville’s heart from beating madly behind his ribcage.

  
“Neville,” called Ron. “Neville, are you alright, mate?” No. Not at all. Neville was so far from alright, he could cry. His entire body was plastered flat to the broom-handle. His ankles were centimetres from the broom's bristles and Neville was having an eye-to-eye with a fucking corpse! He was not alright. Not in any shape, way, or form. But, again, the little voice told him that it would be too much of a bother to tell Ron all of this. Instead, he squeaked a “fine” before guiding the broom up till he was in a somewhat safe zone between the stalactites and the lake. The rest of the flight went with a semblance of ease till he was ready to alight on the island.

  
But, just as Neville was coming down, the tip of his shoe grazed the lake water.

  
***

  
Harry-James woke up in a white room. A hospital room, apparently. He attempted to sit up but an arm, clad in embroidered white silk, pushed down on his shoulder. Harry-James turned his head to follow its retreat.

  
The King sat by his bedside.

  
Harry-James attempted to sit up, to bow to his ruler and saviour. But the King pushed him down, again.

  
“Stay,” said the King. “You can show your loyalty another day. We have something more important to discuss… Tell me, Captain, do you resent me?”

  
“Resent you, Your Majesty?” repeated Harry-James, wondering what could have brought this question on.

  
“Yes, Captain,” confirmed the King. “It is a simple question. Do you, Harry-James Potter, resent your King?”

  
“I don’t understand,” admitted Harry-James. “Why would I resent Your Highness? After everything you did for me. You saved me from the Order.” The King chuckled and leaned forward to pat Harry’s hand.

  
“Dear boy,” said His Royal Highness, “your words are sweet to this old man’s ears. Not many show me the gratitude I am due. But you saw something today, did you not? You saw what I took from you. You saw how I took it from you.”

  
“How- How does Your Highness know?” asked Harry-James. “How do you know what I saw?”

  
“Unimportant,” said the King, waving a hand. “But, if you must know, a Forget-Me-Not spell was cast on you when you were a baby. On all Order children. It was one of Albus Dumbledore’s last commands to his band of traitors. Fenwick knew of its existence, of the word that would trigger the spell’s effect. Isn’t that intriguing, Captain?”

  
“He must’ve spoken to someone who knew it,” said Harry-James.

  
“Yes,” hummed the King. “Do you know what that means, Captain? No? It means that, at least, one of the four people you saw is still alive. I _killed_ your mother. Your father was killed by the LeStrange brothers…” Here, he paused and looked at Harry-James as though something quite obvious had just occurred to him. “Say… now that I think about it, I never saw his body.” The way he said it made Harry-James feel cold with sudden apprehension. Was the King doubting the LeStrange brothers? Even if he was, why was Harry-James overcome with this feeling of foreboding?

  
“Do you doubt their words, Your Majesty?” asked Harry-James, fearing the answer and its consequences.

  
“No,” said the King. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. Harry-James could see his red eyes glittering through the white veil. A flower was embroidered intricately across the bottom of his face in red thread, hiding most of his features. Tendrils, in the same red thread, led away from the flower, all the way down his neck and onto his chest. It made Harry-James feel uneasy, like he was talking to a ghost or a ghoul that had just feasted on raw meat and was still hungry.

_Danger._

  
“Captain,” said the King. He closed his eyes and sighed, making the veil flutter. The shape of his closed eyes seemed familiar. “I trust Rabastan and Rodolphus with my life. They would never lie to me. Too smart for such stupidity. No, no, no. They did not lie to me. They truly believe your father to be dead.”

  
The King paused, as if waiting for Harry-James to say something, to come to some grand realisation. There was something horrid in what His Highness was implying by that last statement, something rotten and treacherous and violating towards the LeStrange brothers and the Crown. Harry-James said nothing. He allowed the unsaid to remain just that. Unsaid.

  
“One of the remaining two men,” the King continued, after a while, “might still be alive. Perhaps both, even. You could have grown up with them. You would have been happy. Loved. Cared for. Nothing like the orphanages we have here, in New Hogsmeade. So, I ask again, Captain. Do you resent me?”

  
It felt like a trap. Like an ambush. Harry-James gladly walked into it for his King.

  
“A little,” said Harry-James, turning on his side to face his King. This was important and dangerous. Harry-James had a feeling that only complete honesty could save him, now. The King’s eyes were open and their gazes met. “The orphanages… They aren’t- they’re not easy.”

  
“No?” snorted the King. “Well, I’ll be damned.” His tone was rather flippant and it hurt Harry-James to have his pain dismissed so easily. But the King was older than Harry-James, had fought wars and seen truly horrible things. Perhaps Harry-James _was_ whining for no good reason.

  
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” said Harry-James. “I did not mean to sound ungrateful.” The King watched him for a moment, then, another.

  
“I interrupted you,” he said, eventually. “Do go on.”

  
“Thank you, your Highness,” said Harry-James. “I know that what you did for me, for all the dirty-blooded children and the Order children, was beyond kind. But- What I saw… I don’t know how to explain-”

  
“I do,” interrupted the King. “I was you, once. I was small and unloved and reviled by my caretakers.” Harry-James’ eyes widened at the confession. This was something sacred, he thought. Something he was not worthy of. He listened closely, with the attention one reserves for the word of God. “I wanted, so very badly, to have someone _want_ me. I wanted someone to take me from that horrid place. I wanted someone to _save_ me. I wanted someone _for me_. And you had that someone. You had _four_ someones. I took that from you. I stole it. I killed your mother, had my men kill your father. Then, I stole you from your crib. I _stole_ you so I could make you into my slave, so I could throw it in Dumbledore’s face. ‘Look what I did’ I wanted to tell him. ‘Look what I can do to your _future.’_ I did not bring you here for your safety. I did not _save_ you, dear boy. I stole you. So, I ask again, Captain Harry-James Potter. Do you resent me?”

  
“A little,” repeated Harry-James. The King watched him, breathing hard. His red eyes shone with an angry glint. There was death in those eyes. There was a promise for pain and torture, the likes of which Harry-James had perhaps never imagined before.

  
“Do you resent me?” asked the King.

  
“I was loved,” said Harry-James. “I know that, now.”

  
“Do you resent me?” asked the King, again.

  
“I was loved,” said Harry-James, “and wanted. I lost all of that because of you, My King.”

  
_“Do you resent me?”_

  
“I was loved and wanted,” said Harry-James. “But they were traitors. I do resent you, Your Highness. Just a little. Just a little. You may not see it as such, but you saved me. You _did._ You saved our people from the Order and its muggle-loving ways. You saved our culture from a slow degradation on at the hands of unrestrained muggleborns. You saved us, My King. I can swallow my resentment. It is nothing compared to my respect for you, for your suffering, for all that you’ve done for us.”

  
***

  
This reverence, this worship… it was everything Voldemort had ever dreamed of.

  
It was all Voldemort had ever wanted.

  
It was absolutely ridiculous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot is like Bleach-levels of slow *sweats profusely*. It's so slow, you won't even realise there was a love story till the last chapter😂😂😂 Anyways, leave a comment.
> 
>  
> 
> _Or Neville gets eaten by inferi!_


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by aroundloafofbread to whom you people owe the quality of this entire story. Let's all thank aroundloafofbread, together. It could definitely be worse.
> 
> There's a lot of French in this chapter. Don't worry, it's usually explained right before or right after.You're not missing anything if you don't understand French. That is, aside from this one OC's amazing comedic value. You're welcome to google translate his lines but, as I said, it's not important to the story itself. 
> 
> As for why they are speaking French even thought they're Italian, here's my weird-person logic. See if you can follow:  
> -I can't speak any Italian  
> -Elio and Marzia, in Call Me by Your Name are Italian kids who speak French  
> -I speak French  
> -Therefore, the OCs speak French  
> -Pat yourself on the back for a brilliant job on the mental gymnastics
> 
> Any Italian that is in this chapter is mostly a lot of google translate and some help from some non-native speakers who've learnt the language. Please don't roast me too hard over it. ;-; I tried.

**Somewhere in Rome, 1979**

Remus had come all the way to Rome on a limb.  Following random advice given by a witch living up in the mountains was the sort of thing that James did. Remus was supposed to be the smart one, the one who made decisions based on logic. And yet, here he was, sweating under the Roman sun as he dodged tourists and locals, alike.

This whole quest had started with Remus becoming increasingly frustrated with the limitations of his curse. Every full moon, Remus was forced to lock himself in the basement while James, Lily, and Sirius went to fight against Voldemort’s forces. Forces that only got stronger and larger with each passing day. He needed to find a way to retain his mind during the full moon. He needed to control the transformation.

Remus walked around a pair of American tourists who were looking at some terrible plastic renditions of the Coliseum. He kept walking till he reached a place where the crowds thinned. At the entrance of an alleyway, an old man was sitting on a flakey old plastic chair. He was fanning himself with an oddly lacy hand fan with a map of Sicily on the side.

“I’m looking for Lupa’s den,” Remus told the man. The old man cast him a suspicious look but jerked his head towards the alleyway.

“Pizza,” said the old man, before turning back towards the road. Remus frowned in confusion. What was the ‘pizza’ about? He walked down the alleyway, looking around for anything that could look like a Wolf’s den. There were mostly shutters and doors in faded colours. Nothing that seemed to even remotely look like what he was looking for.

Remus was about to go back to the old man when, from the corner of his eye, he noticed a flash. He turned to look at it. There, half-hidden behind an open shutter, a neon light was flashing red and green. It was a pizzeria sign and the name was in Italian, which Remus understood about as well as a giant could speak English. Remus wondered what a pizzeria was doing in such a place. It didn’t seem like a particularly good location for a business. Then, it came to him.

_Pizza._

That was the only thing the old man had said. Pizza. Remus spun around to look at the old man. He was still sitting in his plastic chair, fanning himself and watching the passersby. Remus shook his head in wonder. Well, he’d been as clear as he could be without speaking English. Remus could not complain.

He entered the pizzeria. It was almost the size of a small walk-in closet. There were two small plastic tables with vinyl tablecloths and four red plastic chairs squeezed around each. Remus thought that, if all eight chairs were used, there would be no moving around in there. In addition to the tables and chairs, there was a counter that took up all of the left side of the pizzeria and almost half of the available space. Behind this counter, there slouched a teenager who was so busy dozing off, that he did not notice the arrival of a new customer. Remus rapped his knuckles against the counter-top, causing the kid to startle awake.

“Che-”

“Let me stop you right there,” interrupted Remus. “I don’t understand Italian.” The teenager puffed his cheeks up in clear annoyance.

“Englishman?” he asked. His accent was very pronounced but Remus couldn’t place it. It wasn’t exactly Italian. But it also wasn’t… not? “No French?”

“Only a little,” said Remus. “Une petite peu.”

“Merda,” spat the boy. “C’est tellement mauvais que j’veux pleurer. Vous comprenez quand même?”

“Très mal,” said Remus, his own accent thick, “mais, oui.” _Very badly, but yes._

“Vous voulez quoi?” asked the boy. That, Remus understood. He was asking what Remus wanted.

“Lupa’s den,” said Remus.

“Lupa?” repeated the boy, standing more at attention, now. “Loup-garou?” and, when Remus could not understand, “Wairwoolf?” Remus nodded to the last one and pointed to himself. The boy sighed and went to shift a part of the counter. He motioned for Remus to follow him and lead them into the back of the shop, through the kitchen and down a flight of stairs that lead into a room so small that Remus had to bend down a little. If he stretched his arms, he could probably touch the walls on either side.

The boy crouched down and peeled back the ugly rug that was plastered to the floor. Beneath it, there was a trapdoor which he pulled open. He gestured for Remus to go down first. Remus stared at him suspiciously and the boy responded by rolling his eyes.

“Je vais pas te tuer, nigaud,” said the boy. “C’est trop de travail et je suis fièrement paresseux.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” said Remus. He’d understood the word ‘tuer’ which meant ‘kill’ but the rest of it had passed right by him, sounding like utter gibberish. The boy gave him a long-suffering sigh.

“No kill,” said the kid. “Much work. I, um…” He mimed falling asleep and reaching for something excruciatingly slowly. Lazy. Remus snorted when he finally pieced it together. The boy was telling him that he was too lazy to kill Remus.

“Alright,” said Remus. He proceeded to climb down the ladder that lead down from the trapdoor. He’d climbed almost all the way down before he realised that he’d never introduced himself. He pointed to his own face and said “Remus Lupin.”

“Elio,” said the boy, pointing to his own face.

“Nice to meet you, Elio,” said Remus.

“Nice,” Elio chuckled before shutting the trapdoor in Remus’ face.

***

The trapdoor led into a narrow corridor, the end of which, Remus had yet to find. It went on and on, interminably. According to his watch, Remus had been walking for almost half an hour when, finally, in the distance, a door appeared. Remus went to open it but it turned out to be locked. He knocked and waited to see what would happen. If worse came to worse, he would use an Alohomora. He really should have insisted for Elio to come with him. But, just as he was drawing his wand, Remus heard the lock slide. The door opened with a soft click to show a man with a stern buzz cut and a face that dared one to start a fight. He gave Remus a once over, then nodded as if to say that he approved of what he saw. He stepped aside and waved Remus through the door.

There was no understanding what Remus saw next.

Beyond the door, the parquet slowly petered out till it turned into the greenest grass Remus had ever seen. The ground began to slope, a few paces away from the last wooden slat, and dipped into an open valley. In this valley, an entire town made of columns and domes and sharp angles sprawled till it reached a river that flowed into a range of hills covered in purples and pinks and oranges that, Remus could only assume, were a multitude of flower beds.

“You made it,” cheered a girl that Remus had never seen before. She had curly black hair and brown skin and was wearing a checkered red and white dress. She ran up the hill and threw herself into Remus’ arms. “Good job!” Then, she turned around and yelled: “Mais grouille-toi!” _Hurry_ _up_ , she was saying. Grumbling and kicking up dirt, Elio rounded the bend, looking supremely put out.

“T’aurais pas pu te brûler rien qu’un peu,” groused Elio. He pulled five silver coins from his pocket and handed them to the girl. “Cinq denarii. Maintenant, casse-toi.”

“Tu parles anglais comme un âne,” said the girl. “ _I_ can speak English. I can translate for you.”

“Can you start by telling me why he’s talking about burning?” asked Remus. The girl frowned and punched Elio in the arm.

“He’s being a terrible person,” said the girl. “I’m Ella, by the way. And no, I am _not_ related to this idiot. It’s only a terrible coincidence that our names are similar.” Elio watched her, frowning as he attempted to work out what Ella was saying. Evidently, he could tell that it was nothing good.

“Why did he make me take that horrible tunnel when he had another way down here?” asked Remus, feeling rather put out that he’d been forced to walk thirty minutes in a damp, dark tunnel when there was another, quicker way down. “And where is here, anyhow?”

“This is New Troy!” said Ella, spreading her arms in triumph. There was every reason to be proud. New Troy was magnificent. Even Elio seemed grudgingly approving of Ella's sentiment. “Everyone who comes to New Troy has to take the long way, the first time. People with ill intentions towards New Troy can never make it out of there. There are booby traps that will burn them to ashes. Our ancestors learned their lesson from the Trojan war.”

“Ah,” said Remus. “Of course.” He’d learnt all about _that_ massacre from his extracurricular readings. He’d been especially curious about the fact that no one knew what had happened to the Trojan witches and wizards. Most scholars assumed that they’d either perished with the muggle Trojans or became part of the Roman magical community. But, here they were, Remus realised. _This_ was where Troy’s magical community had vanished to. Right under Rome. “You’d think most people would’ve realised that this was where the Trojans had vanished to.”

“There’s a spell woven onto the thought of the Trojan magical community,” explained Ella. “Unless you’ve been to New Troy before, you cannot even begin to think about us being under Rome. So, Remus, what brings you to New Troy?”

“Tu lui demandes quoi?” asked Elio.

“Pourquoi il est là,” answered Ella. Elio’s eyes widened and he jumped up from the rock he’d sat upon. He ran up to Remus and pulled on his sleeve.

“No answer,” he hissed in Remus’ ear. “Very _bad_.” Remus turned to look at Ella, wondering what was so bad about telling her he was a werewolf. Then, he remembered how people reacted in England when they learnt what he was. He clenched his jaw and nodded at Elio.

“What did he tell you?” asked Ella.

“Nothing important,” said Remus. “I just needed directions. But Elio knows where I need to be.”

“Il dit quoi?” asked Elio, anxiously. Ella considered Remus with narrowed eyes.

“Que tu sais où il veut aller,” she said, frowning at the two of them. “J’peux vous accompagner. Vous vous comprenez pas, de toute façon.” To Remus, she said: “I can come with you. You don’t understand each other. I can translate.”

“Non!” blurted Elio. “C’est seulement de l’amener au bon endroit. Pas besoin de parler.” Ella pouted at that.

“He doesn’t want me to come,” she told Remus. “Are you going to be okay? He’s an idiot but he’s not a bad guy.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Remus. “How bad can it be if he can’t talk to me?”

***

Elio camped himself down at the entrance to New Troy until Ella was gone. Several times, he screamed “Casse-toi, Ella.” The first seven times, Remus heard a rustling. Maybe Elio wad telling her to leave. It certainly looked like he was expecting her to and Ella was simply pretending to do so. The next seven times, there was no sound. Finally, Elio stood up on the tip of his toes and yelled “Va-t-en! Merde!”

“Mais t’es chiant!” came the disgruntled answer. So she _hadn’t_ left. Remus tried to hide his laughter with a cough, which only earned him a dark glare from Elio.

“Laugh,” he said. “You can. Later, you cannot.”

“Désolé,” said Remus, sheepishly. _Sorry_. Elio huffed and began climbing down the slope, into the valley. He crooked a finger in Remus’ direction for him to follow. They made their way down a winding dirt path, into New Troy. Elio avoided all the crowded places and took Remus into the darkest alleyways he could find.

New Troy was large and full of open spaces. Some spaces had fountains and were paved with cobblestones. Some were simply open grass. Some were flower gardens where wizards and witches were busy tending to purple flowers that cascaded down wooden beams in clusters and trees covered in pink flowers. The sun shone bright and warm in New Troy, even though Remus could not see where it shone from.

“It’s beautiful,” said Remus as they rounded yet another column. “Bella.”

“Hmmm,” Elio hummed in agreement. “Here.” Remus stared at the place the boy was pointing out. It was smaller than the buildings on either side, but it did not look out of place. Elio opened the door and yelled: “Mannaro!”

An old woman came running, brandishing a stick over her head and screaming at Elio who ducked to avoid being hit and began running around the house and laughing raucously. Finally, the woman caught up to him and grabbed his ear. Elio was wheezing and smiling through it all.

“Inglese, nonna,” Elio managed to say after catching his breath. “È un lupo mannaro inglese. Non parla italiano.”

“Only English?” the woman asked, turning to Remus.

“Yes,” Remus said, feeling slightly guilty. He should probably have, at least, brought an English to Italian dictionary.

“Not a problem,” said the woman. “My grandfather come from England. I can speak English. What you here for?”

“I was told to find Lupa’s den,” said Remus. “I need to find a way to control my curse.”

“Who told you?” asked the woman.

“Milena did,” said Remus. The woman sighed and nodded. She gestured for Remus to take a seat at her small kitchen table. Elio went off into one of the backrooms. Remus could hear him tinkering with Merlin knew what.

“Milena is my sister,” said the woman. “I am Elena. Born together. Not same face.”

“I see,” said Remus. He did not particularly care how Milena and Elena were related. His journey had been long and he was tired and he knew he still had a long way to go. “Why do you think she sent me to you?”

“She did not send to me,” said Elena. “I am only stop on your journey. I know the way. I am also lupo mannaro.” Remus’ eyes widened at the implications.

“You can control the shift?” he asked, leaning forwards on his chair.

“Yes,” said Elena. “But the price is bad. Very dangerous. If I was you, I turn back. Go home while you can.”

“I can’t!” declared Remus. “A horrible man is destroying my home and I can’t stand with my friends against him. The stupid curse holds me back. I want to- I _need_ to find a way to control the curse. I need to help my friends.”

Elena considered him for a while. Finally, she sighed and called Elio. They spoke in fast Italian and Elio seemed particularly unhappy with whatever Elena was telling him. He was arguing and shaking his head, giving Remus the impression that Elena was asking him to do something he didn’t want to do.

“Elio knows the way,” she said, after a good fifteen minutes of arguing, at the end of which, Elio pinched his lips and frowned at Remus as if the latter had just doused him in cold water on a particularly freezing winter morning. “He shows you. Follow him.”

**South of England, 2011**

_The rest of the flight went with a semblance of ease till he was ready to alight on the island. But, just as Neville was coming down, the tip of his shoe grazed the lake water._

He lost his balance and tripped on the rocky surface of the island. The broom slipped out from under him and kept flying till it hit Ron square in the chest, sending him tumbling to the ground. Neville fell, face first, into the island’s rock surface. His feet landed into the water and Neville felt something ice-cold clamp around his right ankle. He turned around to see what it was and came face to face with a woman. No. Not a woman.

An inferus.

Her irises were milky grey and her face was so bloated, pieces of skin began to fall off as soon as she lifted herself out of the water. The hand on Neville’s ankle was smooth and cold. Her hair had fallen out in clumps so that she was balding on one side of her head. She reached for Neville’s other ankle with her free hand and began to pull, her grip tight and strong. Neville, frightened beyond reason, screamed and tried to find purchase on the island’s rock. He didn’t want to drown. He _wasn’t_ going to drown. He couldn’t die there, not after everything he’d been through.

“Incendio,” screamed Ron. A jet of orange fire shot from the tip of his wand and hit the inferus clear in the chest. She screamed, high and ear-shattering, as she burned and fell back into the lake. Neville scrambled away from the edge, away from the water, but the damage was done.

As soon as the woman fell into the water, the entire lake erupted in jets and showers as the inferi broke the surface. The corpses began to wade towards them, causing ripples and waves as they displaced the water. Slowly, inexorably, they closed in on Neville and Ron. They moved like broken puppets, dragging their legs and twisted ankles and bloated bodies towards their would-be victims. It was less walking and more a mass, concerted heaving effort as they moved in near-synchrony with each other. Like some great army of the dead.

“Protego Maximum,” screamed Neville. A large dome shot from Neville’s wand and enveloped the island before the inferi could make it to the two of them. When they reached the dome, the dead began to scratch against the invisible barrier, trying to get through. Neville watched in disgusted horror as some of the inferi lost their fingers and continued to scratch at the shield with the leftover stumps. Bloody skid marks formed where the stumps met the shield. At least, that was what Neville had thought at first. But, soon enough, he realised that their blood was long-dried in their veins and that, what he was seeing on the shield, was the inferi’s flesh being scraped away from the stumps.

“Will it hold?” asked Ron, even as the inferi began to climb on top of one another, attempting to find a breach through which they could reach the two wizards.

“Yeah,” said Neville, eying the top of the dome. Soon, the inferi would cover the whole thing and their escape would become near impossible. “Just hurry and get the horcrux.” He pushed another burst of magical energy into the shield, strengthening it and adding half-a-centimetre to its radius. It would only delay the inferi for so long. Behind him, he heard a splash. It was way too close to be the inferi. Neville wanted to turn around to see if one had gotten through but he needed to concentrate on the spell. A break of focus could mean the end of their lives.

“Fuck,” hissed Ron. “I can’t fucking get the bloody thing. I think I need to drink this shit.”

“What?” asked Neville. “What shit?”

“It’s a green potion, I think,” explained Ron. “Looks all nasty and stuff.”

“Well, don’t drink it!” said Neville, alarmed that the idiot would even consider it. “Can’t you Accio the horcrux?” There was a pause then the sound of Ron clicking his tongue. He tried saying the spell out loud but it obviously did not work because Neville heard him curse, once more, under his breath.

“I don’t think I have a choice,” said Ron. “Even when I toss the potion on the side, it just vanishes mid-air and goes back into the bowl. I have to drink it.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” swore Neville. “I don’t fancy drinking anything of that madman’s creation. It’s bound to be poison of some sort.”

“Of course it is,” said Ron. “But what else can we do?” Neville had to agree. The inferi were half-way to the top of the shield-dome and there were so many of them that, no matter how much magic Neville supplied to the shield, he could not increase its size, anymore.

“Hurry,” relented Neville. There were splashes behind Neville and, in the beginning, they went at a steady rhythm but, after he’d counted seven, there was a distinct deceleration. Ron went slower and slower until he stopped entirely. “What’s wrong?” Ron did not answer, immediately. When he did say something, it was not what Neville had expected.

“Please don’t hurt her,” begged Ron. “She’s just a little girl. _Please_.” What little girl? There were only the two of them in that cave, aside from the inferi. Neville did not count any little girls amongst the corpses.

“What are you talking about?” he asked. But he was a bit distracted. The inferi had stopped going up the shield-dome. They were still and their many glassy eyes were turned towards the island. Neville stared at the wall of human flesh, wondering what they were waiting for. Finally, at the very bottom of the pile, some of the inferi began to move. The ones on top, fell with splats and the sound of parting flesh and broken bones. At an alarming speed, the inferi parted so that, in their midst, a corridor opened through which Neville could see a clear path to the cave’s exit.

“Neville?” asked Ron, interrupting Neville’s train of thought. “Neville, is that you? Neville, you have to help me. They’re going to kill Ginny! _They’re going to kill Ginny!_ ” Neville didn’t understand. Ron’s sister, Ginny, was long dead at the hand of Snatchers. The scar on his cheek was given to him by Scabior, one of the first Snatchers, when Ron had tried to save her. The Weasleys had fought too hard and too well, causing the Snatchers to cut their losses short and kill the one person they’d managed to catch: Ginny.

“Ron, Ginny is dead, already,” said Neville. He knew it was cruel but they were on a time crunch. He had no idea why the inferi had decided to offer an escape route but he wasn’t willing to wait until they decided to rescind their favour. Ron whimpered and Neville really wanted to turn around to comfort him but the shield was taking his all.

“You’re right,” said Ron, sadly. “You’re right and it hurts so badly. So bad. Like, in my stomach. I think I need a drink. That water looks good.” What? What water? It was with a gut-turning dread that Neville watched Ron walk past him, clearly making his way to the stretch of lake that the inferi had, obligingly, opened for him. Their behaviour made sense, now.

“Ron, stop,” said Neville. He couldn’t move, couldn’t stop his best friend from walking to his doom. He had to hold the stupid shield but it only kept the inferi out. It wouldn’t stop Ron from walking right through and allowing the monsters outside to drown him and, likely, add him to their numbers. As, Ron kept walking, Neville got more and more desperate. Something bubbled up in him, something that he did not even know existed. It felt warm. It felt like an odd excitement. It felt like that courage that Papa and Sirius and Moony had. The sort that had earned Ron his scar.

“ _Accio!_ ”

Ron’s wand flew from his pocket and landed into Neville’s outstretched hand. With a power he did not even know he possessed, Neville used Ron’s wand to cast at the same time as he was casting with his own wand. He cast the worst spell he knew: the Imperius.

“Stop,” he ordered Ron. He stopped and Neville made him turn around. “Go drink that potion.” He watched Ron walk back where he’d come from and, it was only when he heard the potion splash behind him, that Neville turned his attention back to the shield. It had become patchy in some areas and some inferi’s fingers and hands had made it through. A few of these limbs found themselves cut against the shield and fell to the island. It was like rain, except the droplets were bits and pieces of zombie flesh. Neville half expected the fingers and hands to keep moving, even once they were detached from their owners. They did not and it was a bit disappointing. But the important thing was that the shield was still keeping the monsters at bay.

After another ten splashes, Neville could not hear anything behind him anymore. Perhaps Ron had finished the potion. “Are you done?” asked Neville.

“Yes,” said Ron in a monotone.

“Pick up the horcrux,” ordered Neville, “and get on the broom. Tell me when you’re done.” There was a clink and a rustling and Ron announced that he was on the broom. “Come next to me.” Neville got onto the broom as soon as Ron was level to him. He had his friend angle the broom so that it pointed towards the corridor that the inferi had created. Neville had to do this right. He had to release the shield while holding the Imperius, failing which, Ron could very well let them fall to their doom.

Three.

Two.

One.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun Dun Dun.
> 
> Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to hibernate for another month. I'll see you when inspiration strikes again. 
> 
> Please comment.
> 
>  
> 
> _or I might be tempted to send that broom into Inferi hell_
> 
>  
> 
> Threatening people into commenting. Because that's how low I've fallen. ;-;


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *turns around with a flip of the hair* What's this? An update? *Pulls down sunglasses*. Why, yes. Yes, it is. Thank you for noticing. *laughs poshly like Gumball*
> 
> In all seriousness, Thank you to those of you that have stuck along, so far and welcome to new readers. I know I update like the moon turns red, sometimes, i.e., after a millennium or something. 10 chapters! Finally! And let's take a moment to thank aroundloafofbread for their amazing editing skills!
> 
> Please enjoy, and let me know what you thought.
> 
> PS: Read attentively. This is a battle chapter. If you skim, you might miss something. It's very chaotic in structure and that's on purpose. My goal was to confuse you. Muahahahahahaha. JK. I was trying to portay the chaos of war. Lemme know if I succeeded.

**Somewhere in the Italian countryside, 1979**

They had stopped for the day because Elio absolutely refused to take Remus any further and was, now, busy splashing around in a lake they’d stumbled upon. The water was clear, and Remus could see the pebbles on the lakebed. Small black and red fish swam in shoals and there were a few water striders, here and there. Elio had shoved his clothes off, lightning fast, and dived right in, scattering the fish and, altogether, causing a giant commotion amongst the lake’s inhabitants.

“Woooh!” screamed Elio, shooting right back up with a grin that was half-frown. “Putain, qu’c’est froid!” Remus could guess at what Elio had said, and he had to agree. The water was freezing, and Remus could barely dip his toes into it. But Elio seemed undeterred. He whooped and laughed as he played in the water.

Remus rolled his jeans up to his knees and sat on the lakeshore with his feet in the water. He pulled out the notebook he had been scribbling in for the past few days. Elio had noticed and Remus knew he was curious about it. He wanted to ask, but the language barrier seemed to deter him. Remus could understand that. There were many instances, in the past few days, where he had refrained from talking to Elio because most of their conversation ended up consisting of a lot of miming and general frustration. Remus had realised, early on, that this couldn’t go on forever. The trip would be sour for it. And that was why he was scribbling in a notebook.

“C’est quoi?” asked Elio, swimming up to Remus and finally giving in to his curiosity. Remus looked up and, immediately looked away, blushing madly. He’d quite forgotten that Elio was stark naked, and he had no idea what to do with his eyes. Finally, he settled for staring at the notebook, intently.

“It’s a spell,” said Remus. “Um, sortilège? To understand each other. Comprendre…” He trailed off with a sigh. Spell and Understand were the only two words he’d managed to translate. Would Elio even be able to figure out what Remus meant?

“Pour qu’on s’parle?” asked Elio. “You and me talk?” Oh. So, he did understand. Huh. Not bad, Remus. Not bad, at all.

“Yeah,” confirmed Remus.

“Fais vite,” said Elio. “J’veux te baiser. On peut pas si on se comprend pas.” Remus frowned in confusion. He’d understood that Elio was asking him to hurry up, but the rest was a mystery.

“Pas comprend…” said Remus. Elio laughed and turned to swim away.

“Good!” he shouted back.

**Epsom, 2011**

“Will you explain why it was necessary for the both of us to come out?” asked Remus. They were stationed right outside Epsom, watching the Muggles mill about the market town. There were about fifty of them, more than five times the number of witches and wizards they usually dispatched to cause trouble for Harry. Remus had no idea why they were doing this and, quite frankly, he wasn’t certain that James had even sanctioned this sortie.

“We need a big distraction,” answered Sirius. He was sitting on a tree stump which used to be a folding chair. Apparently, tree stumps were more ‘wartime appropriate’. Remus did not understand why but he had a niggling suspicion it had something with that Lord of the Rings Muggle movie that Sirius had been obsessed with, lately. “Severus needs us to create a commotion big enough to attract You-know-who’s attention, so he can retrieve the Trident.”

“You want to attract _who_ now?” asked Remus, disbelievingly. “Sirius, are you out of your _goddamn_ mind?! You took only fifty people to go up against _You-know-who_? _He’ll_ _slaughter us!_ ” Sirius sighed and rolled his eyes. Remus couldn’t see how the little bastard was so unconcerned. He was gripped with a cold fear for the life of every man and woman that had come with them. If Voldemort truly showed up, they would all die. The old man could barely be contained with the entirety of the Order’s numbers. Fifty was simply suicidal. And all this because of Sirius’ whimsy.

“Relax,” said Sirius. “I can see you overthinking this, already. Guess it’s my fault for not explaining shite to you before getting here.” He sighed and pulled a pendant from his pocket which he tossed in Remus’ direction. The latter caught it in midair and turned it around to inspect it. It was Sirius’ galleon token, the one that took him back to the mountain. Remus had a similar one on his person.

“Why are you showing me this?” asked Remus, confused.

“Because you seem to forget that we all have one,” said Sirius. “We just need to get Voldemort out. We don’t need to actually fight him. Just distract him.”

“And give Severus enough time to get the Trident,” breathed Remus. “Alright. What do you need me to do?”

“We’re going in in waves,” said Sirius. “The first wave will be the other Order Members. They’ll go down and create a breach of the Statute of Secrecy. That will draw out the Muggleborn squad. Then, I’ll go. I should be able to draw out Death Eater top brass. Once they’re here, it’ll be your turn.”

“Sirius, no,” said Remus, stopping his friend before he even asked. He knew exactly why Sirius planned for him to go out last and he’d promised himself that he would never do that again.

“Sirius, yes,” argued Sirius. “We need that Trident if we’re to defeat You-Know-Who. I know how much this costs you, how much it costs the both of you, but this is necessary. We need to save our people.”

“Sirius, _please_ don’t make me do this,” begged Remus. But Sirius’ jaw was set, and he could not be convinced otherwise. Remus dreaded the outcome of this stupid plan. He couldn’t think of a single instance where this would _not_ end badly. Sirius’ idea was a horrible one. But Remus could not come up with a single alternative that could also attract the Dark Lord. Nothing short of James and Dave flying into battle, themselves. Remus sighed in defeat because, the more he thought about it, the more he realised that nothing else would work. Nothing else would be worth Voldemort’s interest. Merlin fucking damn it! He’d sworn. He’d sworn, for Teddy’s sake, that he would never do it again. Fuck, but he had more in common with his own father than he ever wanted to admit, bringing danger to their doorsteps. “Alright, fine. Fine. _Fine!_ But you owe me. Big time!”

***

Harry-James’ team had never dealt with such a large group of Order members, before. The entire Mudblood Squad had been mobilised and his Second Lieutenants and Lieutenants were going mad with the coordination efforts. It did not help that Corps policy dictated that one order member could only be engaged in teams of three Death Eaters at a time. The rule was established, long ago, after a disastrous attempt by a lone Death Eater to go against an Order Member. At the time, all Death Eaters had been Purebloods and the rule had been established to prevent unnecessary spillage of their blood. But, today, the rule still applied to all the Corps. Including Mudbloods.

“What are we dealing with?” asked Harry-James. Hermione turned a grim look on him.

“They’re at the edge of Epsom,” said Hermione. “It’s the usual nonsense. Fire-breathing kittens, flying teacups that pour ice, flowers that sing the Beatees-”

“Beatles,” interrupted Harry-James.

“Excuse me?”

“Beatles,” repeated Harry-James. “Not Beatees. It’s the Beatles. I remember because they’re named for the insect.”

“Harry-James,” said Hermione, frowning at him in disapproval, “are you really interrupting me for semantics?”

“Sorry,” said Harry-James, sheepishly. “Carry on.”

“Right,” said Hermione. “The people of Epsom are going mad. Quite a few of the Muggles have gone and hidden inside their homes. The Obliviation teams have been working tirelessly and Finch-Fletchley has requested more help. I say that we need to deal with the Order. That’s the only way we’re going to avert this crisis. We need to do something before the Muggle news reportersget here. The moment they do, the entire world is going to find out about Magicals everywhere.”

“And no one wants a Third Salem,” finished Harry-James. “So, we all agree, then? We take the fight to the Order instead of allowing for this continued exposure.”

“Yes, sir,” chorused his soldiers.

***

“They’re taking the fight to us,” said Hestia. “They’ve already pushed us all the way out of Epsom. What’s next?”

“Next,” said Sirius, “it’s my fucking turn.” He was going to take inordinate glee in the following. Of course, he did not relish having to hurt the innocent Muggleborns or, Merlin forbid, Harry. But it had been a fucking long time since Sirius had personally fought against Death Eaters. They had decided, early on during Voldemort’s reign, that he, James, and Remus would pretend to all be dead. If it was known that any of them had survived, Harry would be at risk as he was the only person that was known to be related to Order members. Most of the other Order children had made it to the Mountain and the few that had not, were not related to Order top brass. But, now… Now was the time to climb out of the shadows. Now was the final stretch. And, while he was aware that he risked doing serious harm to Harry, Sirius told himself that, at the end of it all, Harry would finally be free of Voldemort. This was a necessary evil.

Sirius walked to the top of the hill and looked down at Epsom and the field where the Death Eaters were fighting the Order. He tried to spot Harry to make sure he wouldn’t hurt him. Unfortunately, he could not tell the Death Eaters apart. They were all covered, head-to-toe, in their black uniforms: a scaled, skin-tight suit that covered them from neck to toe, a round helmet shaped like a skull, and an asymmetric cape that flowed behind them. Sirius was half-convinced that the cape had to do with old Voldy’s need for drama. That man was no King. He was an honest-to-Merlin _Queen_.

“I can’t tell which one is him,” said Remus, coming to stand beside him. He looked tired, suddenly. His cropped grey hair made him look like an old general, the sort that won dozens of wars in the Muggle movies Sirius was so fond of. He looked respectable. Sirius was his usual shaggy self, even in his older days. He’d never quite managed to grow out a beard like Dumbledore. He’d given it a hard shake, mind. He couldn’t think of anything more hilarious that battling Voldemort while looking like Albus Dumbledore, risen from the dead. Alas, the Blacks had shit genes when it came to beards and Sirius’ only came out wispy at best. Instead, he had a brown goatee, flecked with silver.

“Neither can I,” admitted Sirius. “He’s a grown man, now. Do you think he’s well? Maybe he’s married already. Maybe he has kids. I could be a Grandgod-daddy… I wonder how much he looks like his parents. I wonder who he looks like, more. I wonder if he remembers us at all.” He probably didn’t but Sirius did not want to say it out loud. He had this strange feeling that it might come out as a curse and take Harry from them, forever.

“I’m afraid, Sirius,” whispered Remus. “I’m afraid of meeting him, of finding out how much You-know-Who has corrupted him. I don’t know what I would do if he hates us, if he attacks us.” He was twisting his hands in this pattern that he’d kept since they’d been boys. Over and under and interlaced and over and under, again. Sirius could relate. If he could, he’d be twisting his entire body into a pretzel. His guts were doing an okay job of it, at the moment.

“Me too,” said Sirius. “Do you realise that we’ve only known him for _one_ year out of his _entire fucking life_? We’re… We’re nobody to him. We’re strangers. He’s a piece of our souls, of our very beings. And we’re just- We’re _nothing_. I’m scared, too, Remus. I’m scared, too.” And, with that, he left Remus behind and descended towards the battlefield.

***

Harry-James was busy covering for Hermione when he felt a drop in the ambient temperature. Later, he would swear that he’d felt it in his very bones when _that man_ had walked into the field. But, right then, all he could do was call for a retreat. He didn’t know what it was about the man, but he certainly wasn’t about to ignore his gut and, thereby, lose his Death Eaters. He was responsible for their lives and he’d learnt, from Caecilius, to never risk them over lost causes. Harry-James knew a lost cause when he saw one.

The man had shaggy black hair and mischief written across his face. Harry-James watched him walk into the battlefield. No. He didn’t walk. He sauntered. As if he owned the battlefield. As if there was no one there that could even so much as scratch his pinky. And, when he did begin his offensive, Harry-James understood exactly why.

One moment there was the usual battlefield chaos. Spells flying everywhere in reds and blues and greens and yellows and purples. The next, the very ground they stood upon began to shake. Harry-James watched in horror as the man rose up into the air and giant vines sprung from the earth. They coiled around several of the Death Eaters and threw them up in the air. Several horrible cracks sounded as the Death Eaters fell back to the ground. Some were bleeding. All were screaming in pain. Distantly, he noticed the Order retreating to higher ground. Eventually, they all disappeared behind the hill and the only opponent was the man floating above them. That was when things really took a turn for the worse.

***

**Voldemort’s Castle, New Hogsmeade**

“What’s wrong?” asked Voldemort, as soon as he entered the Court Room. Severus had called an urgent meeting and he was now pacing the length of the room, a decidedly concerned expression on his face. Voldemort passed by him and went to sit in his Throne. Barty, Lucius, and several other high-ranking Death Eaters were gathered in the room. Severus waited till Voldemort was seated, before he began to speak. How respectful.

“It’s the Mudblood Squad, Your Highness,” said Severus. Voldemort immediately perked up. After all, his Horcrux was the Captain of that Mudblood Squad. He gestured for Severus to go on. “They reported to Epsom for, what we thought would be, a routine Order-sanctioned annoyance. The idea was to Obliviate and move on. But, when the initial team got on site, it became obvious that something was wrong. Your Highness, I don’t know what there is in Epsom, but the Order sent _fifty_ Members to breach the Statute.”

“Fifty,” breathed Voldemort, surprised. That was an unremarkable number for the frontlines. The Order usually worked in groups of seventy to a hundred on the frontlines. But it made absolutely no sense that they would send fifty Members just to break the Statute of Secrecy. The whole point of that exercise, Voldemort had realised early on, was so that the Order could distract a good portion of the Death Eater Corps and, thereby, weaken it on the frontlines. There must be something incredibly important in Epsom, indeed. But what?

“That isn’t the biggest problem,” said Severus, interrupting Voldemort’s line of thought. “The fifty Order Members _aren’t_ the biggest problem in Epsom.”

“Then what is it?” asked Voldemort, irritated about how roundabout Severus was being. Severus bit his lip and looked a mix between uncomfortable and furious.

“Sirius Black was sighted,” said Severus. Voldemort blinked in confusion. Which Black was that? Sirius Black.

Sirius Black.

“James Potter’s best friend,” clarified Severus.

“Oh,” said Voldemort, as it finally clicked into place. The renegade Black. “I thought he was dead. I thought he died on the same night as James Potter.”

“It seems, Your Highness,” said Severus, “that reports of his death were greatly exaggerated.”

“Yes, I can see that, now,” said Voldemort. “But why does a sighting of Black warrant this emergency meeting.”

“A scout came back,” said Severus. His lips were trembling, and he seemed on the verge of crying. That did _not_ bode well for Voldemort’s Horcrux. “He had several broken bones and a large gash in his side. The entire Order has retreated.”

“That’s… good news?” said Voldemort, wondering why Severus was dragging the suspense like this. Maybe it was because he was simply having a hard time saying what he wanted to say but, dear Merlin, this was taking forever.

“This is bad news, your Highness,” said Severus, grimly. “Sirius Black is fighting the Mudblood Squad, which is a 150 strong and it seems that he is winning, nevertheless.” There were a few gasps in the courtroom and a few of the Death Eaters sat up straighter. The LeStrange brothers, in particular, seemed very concerned. Rodolphus’ wife, Bellatrix, still walked funny since their last encounter with Sirius Black, over twenty-eight years ago. Right around the time Black had, supposedly passed away.

“I believe the LeStranges have something to say,” seethed Voldemort. Rabastan visibly swallowed and his brother paled drastically. “Would either of you like to inform me of some other potentially alive dead person? I’m asking now because who knows what other murder you _imbeciles_ might have botched. Well?”

“N-none, Your Highness,” stuttered Rabastan.

“ _Really_?” hissed Voldemort. He was so angry that it was all he could do to stop himself from slipping into Parseltongue. “The both of you, at attention, _now_!” Both men shot upright from their seats, ramrod straight. “You’re going to take your respective Squadrons and go save the Mudbloods.”

“With all due respect, Your Highness,” interrupted Lucius, a disbelieving look on his face, “sending two entire Pureblood Squadrons for Mudbloods-”

“ _I am not King of Purebloods, alone,”_ roared Voldemort. He had to save his stupid Horcrux and Lucius Malfoy had gone one step too far. Voldemort absolutely hated to be interrupted. And he _abhorred_ being questioned. “I am King of Purebloods, Halfbloods, _and_ Mudbloods. I rule _all_ of you and this is the _last_ time you will question my authority, Lucius Malfoy! Don’t forget what happened to Regulus Black!”

He watched, delightedly, as Lucius curled in on himself, frightened beyond reason. He trembled like a leaf in the midst of a thunderstorm. The case of dear Regulus Black had been a stroke of genius. The idiot had attempted to use his miserable house elf to supply information on Voldermort’s regime to the Order, and Voldemort had made an example out of him. “Rabastan. Rodolphus. You have your orders. Off you go.” The two Death Eaters bowed in a hurry and ran out. Rabastan was already using his Mark to mobilise his Squadron. They had better succeed.

Voldemort’s soul was at stake.

***

**Epsom**

There were severe injuries. Several of the Death Eaters were too maimed to continue fighting. But there were no dead. Yet.

Harry-James stared at his soldiers, hidden behind a dirt wall that was being held up only thanks to the last dregs of his and Hermione’s magical energy. The situation was desperate, and the floating man was showing no signs of wear. Almost as if he had an unlimited reservoir of magical energy. How was it possible for one man to do so much fucking damage? In the time since he had first entered the battle, the floating man had brought vines forth from the earth to throw the Death Eaters around, called forth giant monolith-like creatures to beat them down, and dragged the very forest into the battle. Trees had picked their roots up and had walked into the battle, swatting Death Eaters as if they were so many flies. It was useless to attack the man’s conjurings as they seemed to be impervious to magic. Even fire did absolutely nothing to the walking trees and shooting vines. The monolith creatures were entirely out of the question.

“Harry-James,” said Hermione through gritted teeth. “I can’t do this much longer. Do you have a plan?” He did not. He had absolutely no plan, other than the fact that they needed to take out the floating man if they were ever going to survive the attack. The problem was that they were all exhausted to hell and back and, at this point, Harry-James could think of nothing else, except how much he wished Healer Riddle was here. But, in that same line of thought, he found himself glad that the other man had been called away by their King. At least, he would be safe. Harry-James wondered who would take his place, who would soothe Healer Riddle when he was gone.

_Crack!_

_Crack! Crack!_

_Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!_

***

Sirius would have laughed, high and maniacal, if he didn’t risk giving his plan away. It had worked. He could see Rodolphus and Rabastan LeStrange amongst the Death Eaters that had just apparated into the battlefield. It wasn’t the entire Death Eater top brass, but Sirius had to admit that that part of his plan had been pretty ambitious. Still, this would be enough. Rodolphus and Rabastan LeStrange were two of the most powerful Death Eaters of Voldemort’s army. If they failed, Voldemort would have to come out, himself. Maybe he might send more of his high-ranking Death Eaters. But, really, how many would he be willing to lose to _fifty_ Order Members?

Sirius watched the new Death Eaters pour into the battlefield. It was like watching a Tsunami crash to the shore. There were so many of them. Sirius thought that each new Squadron was probably twice as large as Harry’s. Goes to show how important Muggleborns were to the Dark Arsehole. For a few minutes, he decided to keep playing with the new Death Eaters. Then, Rodolphus and Rabastan really got into the fray.

“Sirius, old chap,” called Rabastan. “How come you’re not as dead as a dead man should be?”

“Secrets of the trade,” grinned Sirius. “I wouldn’t be much of a wizard if I told you.” Rabastan returned his benign grin with one that reeked of savagery and bloodlust. Beside him, Rodolphus stood quiet and stiff as always. He was ready to strike, Sirius could see. But Sirius wasn’t their opponent. No, no, no. That was Remus’ job. “Let me introduce you to another Not-So-Dead-Deadman.” Rabastan’s eyes widened in surprise and he looked slightly wild around the edges. Sirius took it that Voldemort had not been very happy with his own Not-deceased status. “Aww, honey. Are you in for a spanking from Daddy?”

“Shut your trap, Black!” growled Rabastan. “What’s this about a Not-So-Dead-Deadman?”

“Impatient,” tutted Sirius. He turned around to check on the Order camp. Remus nodded in his direction and set the order for the Order Members to piss off back to the Mountain. Once they were all gone, Remus began his trek up the hill. His jaw was set, grimly and, not for the first time, Sirius was tempted to call back the whole thing. But they needed the Trident. They had no choice and even Remus would have to do his part, no matter how hard.

***

“Elio,” called Remus.

“Mon Amour,” came the answer. “My Everything. My Traitor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, how was it for a first battle? Was it everything you were hoping for? Did you wish it was more death-y? Want me to kill someone? (I make no promises for that last one. Don't sue me for false advertisement)


End file.
